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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
BY  BRITISH  AND  IRISH  AUTHORS 


REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

BY  BRITISH  AND  IRISH 

AUTHORS 


SELECTED,  WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES^ 

BY 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


NON-REFERT 


aaWVAO-Q3S 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


.J 


Copyright,  1921, 
By  Little,  Beown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  October,  1921 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PREFACE 

The  present  is  a  companion  volume  to  "Representative 
One- Act  Plays  by  American  Authors",  edited  by  Margaret 
Gardner  Mayorga  and  published  in  1919.  The  book  was 
originally  undertaken  by  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  who,  finding 
himself  unable  to  continue  the  work,  turned  it  over  to  the 
present  editor. 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  present  editor  to  record  —  as  editors 
have  before  him  recorded  —  that  Barrie  and  Shaw  must  be 
excluded  from  collections  of  this  sort,  for  reasons  which  others 
have  euphemistically  described  as  "limitations  of  copyright." 
One-act  plays  of  Barrie  and  Shaw  would  have  been  made  an 
integral  part  of  this  collection  had  the  authors  and  their 
publishers  seen  fit  to  cooperate  on  a  basis  similar  to  that 
accepted  by  other  authors  and  publishers;  they  did  not, 
and  the  reader  is  therefore  asked  to  fill  in  the  breach  as  best 
he  can. 

To  those  who  have  understood  the  purpose  of  this  book  and 
helped  both  the  editor  and  the  publisher  to  make  it  as  truly 
representative  as  possible,  gratitude  is  hereby  specifically 
acknowledged.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Granville  Barker, 
Harold  Brighouse,  Lady  Gregory,  Alfred  Sutro,  Arnold 
Bennett,  Laurence  Housman,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  Elizabeth 
Baker,  St.  John  Ervine,  and  Lord  Dunsany  have  kindly 
corrected  lists  of  their  plays  and  furnished  valuable  data. 
Mr.  E.  M.  Anderson,  Mr.  Harold  Brighouse,  and  Mr. 
Harold  Veasey  have  spared  no  pains  in  revising  lists  and  fur- 
nishing data  on  the  late  Elizabeth  Robins,  Stanley  Houghton, 
and  Oliphant  Down,  respectively.  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton's 
assistance  and  advice  on  many  matters  and  Mr.  T.  R. 
O      Edwards'  cooperation  in  securing  the  rights  of  many  English 

*-•      plays  are  thankfully  acknowledged. 
CO 


9 

o 


O 


CONTENTS 


Preface 

The  One-act  Play  in  England  and  Ireland    . 

The  Widow  of  Wasdale  Head.     Sir  Arthur  Pinero 

The  Goal.    Henry  Arthur  Jones    .... 

Salome.     Oscar  Wilde 

The  Man  in  the  Stalls.    Alfred  Sutro 

'Op-o'- Me- Thumb.     Frederick  Fenn  and  Richard  Pryce 

The    Impertinence    of   the    Creature.     Cosmo    Gordon 
Lennox     ..... 

The  Stepmother.    Arnold  Bennett 

Rococo.     Granville  Barker 

James  and  John.     Gilbert  Cannan 

The  Snow  Man.    Laurence  Housman 

Fancy  Free.     Stanley  Houghton     . 

Lonesome- like.     Harold  Brighouse 

Miss  Tassey.    Elizabeth  Baker 

Makeshifts.     Gertrude  Robins 

The  Maker  of  Dreams.     Oliphant  Doivns     . 

The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire.     William  Butler  Yeats 

Riders  to  the  Sea.    J.  M.  Synge 

Spreading  the  News.    Lady  Gregory     . 

The  Magnanimous  Lover.     St.  John  G.  Ervine    . 

The  Golden  Doom.    Lord  Dunsany 

Bibliographical  Notes        ..... 

One-act  Plays  by  English  and  Irish  Dramatists 


PAGE 
V 

ix 

3 

43 

69 

107 

131 

161 
175 

197 
229 
247 
265 
283 
305 
323 
345 
367 
391 
409 
431 
455 
473 
476 


vn 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 
IN  ENGLAND  AND  IRELAND 

DESPITE  the  many  inducements  and  encouragements 
now  offered  to  the  writer  of  one-act  plays,  I  dare  risk 
the  statement  that  in  the  British  Isles  (and  even  in  America) 
the  one-act  play  occupies  an  anomalous  position,  and  that 
it  has  yet  to  be  accepted  as  an  altogether  legitimate  and 
respectable  form  of  drama.  I  am  well  aware  that  for  a  gen- 
eration the  Abbey  Theater  in  Dublin  and  for  many  years 
the  Gaiety  Theater  in  Manchester  have  each  not  only  pro- 
duced one-act  plays  of  merit,  they  have  practically  created 
"schools"  of  dramatists  whose  finest  work  is  to  be  found  in 
the  one-act  form.  Still,  despite  facts  to  which  I  am  by 
no  means  blind,  I  should  like  to  record  my  impression  that 
the  one-act  play,  throughout  the  English-speaking  world,  has 
yet  to  win  and  hold  its  place  in  the  public  esteem. 

The  refutations  to  my  statement  are  numerous  and 
weighty;  this  volume  itself  seems  to  belie  my  words:  Synge 
and  Yeats,  Barker  and  Ervine,  Lady  Gregory  and  Elizabeth 
Robins  are  undoubtedly  the  products  of  theaters  that  have 
made  it  a  business  to  encourage  the  writing  of  one-act  plays. 
Suppose  I  put  it  differently. 

In  France,  for  instance,  one  may  pass  as  an  artist  and  a 
gentleman  as  well  as  the  author  of  a  score  of  one-acters;  in 
Germany  there  are  —  or  were  —  half  a  dozen  reputable  drama- 
tists whose  chief  claim  to  celebrity  rested  upon  one  or  two 
volumes  of  one-act  plays;  in  Spain  and  France  there 
are  theaters  where  none  but  short  plays  are  ever  pro- 
duced. In  England  and  America  I  can  think  of  no  dramatist 
whose  fame  rests  entirely,  or  even  principally,  upon  one-act 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 


plays.  Eugene  O'Neill  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  "arrived" 
until  his  first  long  play,  "Beyond  the  Horizon",  reached 
Broadway;  this  in  spite  of  his  previous  honorable  record 
as  the  author  of  a  dozen  short  plays  of  unusual  merit. 

And  you  may  cite  Barrie,  whose  one-act  plays  at  their 
best  are  fully  up  to  the  standard  of  the  long  plays;  but  ask 
yourself  whether  Barrie's  fame  rests  upon  "Rosalind"  and 
"Pantaloon"  or  upon  "The  Little  Minister"  and  "The  Ad- 
mirable Crichton"?  I  shan't  say  that  the  public  is  right: 
I  express  merely  my  opinion  as  to  what  it  thinks  —  or  did 
think  until  recently. 

The  attitude  of  the  public  is  rapidly  changing;  to-day  the 
one-act  play  has  come  almost  to  be  accepted  as  an  inde- 
pendent art-form  —  by  the  general  playgoing  public,  that  is. 
I  am  not  here  speaking  of  the  Earnest  Thinkers  who  build 
Little  Theaters;  they  are  inclined  to  take  the  one-acter  too 
seriously,  largely  because  it  is  an  altogether  easier  form  to 
cope  with  than  the  long  play,  offering  wider  opportunity 
to  dabbling  amateurs.  The  Earnest  Thinkers,  however,  to 
give  them  due  credit,  have  undoubtedly  opened  the  way  for 
a  keener  appreciation  and  more  intelligent  appraisal  of  the 
form  than  was  possible  under  the  old  system,  where  the 
"curtain  raiser"  was  usually  no  more  than  a  by-product 
written  for  the  purpose  of  killing  time. 

Barrie  and  Synge  and  most  of  the  dramatists  who  are 
represented  in  the  present  volume  deserve  the  highest  praise 
for  bringing  about  the  rehabilitation  of  the  one-act  form, 
for  it  is  to  them  that  a  growing  respect  for  the  neglected 
one-acter  is  due.  These  men  —  and  women  —  have  taken 
the  single  act  and  made  of  it  an  independent  art- work; 
they  have  not  used  it  merely  as  a  repository  for  discarded 
scenes  from  long  plays,  or  considered  it  as  an  entertainment 
for  the  pit;  they  have  deigned  to  study  the  form,  and  have 
been  rewarded  by  finding  it  a  delightful  and  effective  medium 
for  the  expression  of  dramatic  ideas  quite  as  dignified  if  not 
as  full  and  plastic  as  the  three-act  or  the  four-act  form. 

Nowadays  every  aspiring  dramatist  is  given  an  oppor- 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  xi 


tunity  of  entering  the  theater  the  easiest  way:  that  is, 
by  writing  a  one-act  play.  That  this  has  not  always  been 
so  is  evident  in  the  words  of  the  veteran  dramatist, 
Henry  Arthur  Jones  who,  a  few  years  ago,  published  in  book 
form  three  one-act  plays  with  a  preface  of  Shavian  pro- 
portions. No  one  speaks  with  greater  authority  than  Mr. 
Jones,  whose  plays  are  known  to  playgoers  throughout  the 
Anglo-Saxon  world.  In  the  Preface  to  "The  Theater  of 
Ideas"  he  says: 

"It  is  a  discouraging  sign  that  neither  on  the  English  nor 
American  stage  is  there  any  demand  for  one-act  plays. 
These  should  be  widely  supported,  as  a  valuable  school  for 
young  playwrights  and  young  actors.  'The  Goal'  was 
written  in  1897,  and  I  had  to  wait  seventeen  years  before  I 
could  get  anything  approaching  a  suitable  representation." 
"The  Goal",  you  will  remark  in  passing,  was  produced  in 
New  York,  by  an  American  company.  These  lines  were 
written  in  1915,  when  they  had  just  ceased  to  convey  the 
whole  truth.  When  "The  Goal"  was  written,  however,  they 
were  lamentably  true.  That  little  play  was  an  outcast,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Jones  was  known  as  the  author  of 
"The  Silver  King"  and  "The  Liars." 

Now  "The  Goal"  is  a  very  ably  constructed  and  effective 
play,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Mr.  Jones  would  not 
claim  for  it  the  same  measure  of  artistic  merit  as,  say,  for 
"The  Liars"  or  "Dolly  Reforming  Herself."  Is  it  not  likely 
that  when  he  wrote  "The  Goal",  without,  as  was  doubtless 
the  case,  any  definite  market  in  view  for  it,  he  regarded  it 
as  a  by-product,  a  dramatic  incident  which  he  could  not  at 
the  time  work  into  another  "Mrs.  Dane's  Defence"?  Do  I 
presume  when  I  say  that  "The  Goal"  and  "Grace  Mary" 
and  "Her  Tongue",  the  three  plays  included  in  "The  Theater 
of  Ideas",  are  the  unconsidered  trifles  of  a  serious  dramatist, 
the  products  of  his  "lost  moments"? 

Perhaps  Mr.  Jones  regards  these  plays  as  children  that 
have  never  had  a  chance,  children  for  whom  there  was 
no  school?      That    he  does  not  look  upon  them   as   fin- 


xii  THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY 

ished  masterpieces  is  evident  from  his  remarks  on  "Her 
Tongue",  which  "pleasantly  occupied  me  during  a  leisure 
week  in  Spain  a  few  years  ago."  If  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
were  beginning  his  career  to-day,  he  would  not,  I  venture  to 
believe,  have  thrown  off  a  one-acter  "during  a  leisure  week 
in  Spain";  he  would,  I  am  sure,  have  burned  the  midnight 
oil  in  London  for  six  weeks  and  spent  his  vacation  in  Spain 
studying  Velasquez.  He  would  also  find  a  dozen  theaters 
ready  to  produce  "The  Goal",  and  not  have  to  say  of 
another  product  of  his  leisure  hours,  "however  unlike  it  may 
be  to  Shakespearean  tragedy"  it  would  "probably  be  equally 
successful  in  keeping  people  out  of  the  theater." 

In  other  words,  Mr.  Jones  has  never  taken  the  one-act 
form  seriously.  Why  should  he?  He  was  not  writing  plays 
for  antiquity,  but  for  living  actors  and  managers  who  pay 
for  effective  dramas.  Mr.  Jones'  early  contemporaries  wrote 
one-act  plays,  but  of  what  sort?  Curtain  raisers  for  the 
most  part;  and  a  curtain  raiser  is  frankly  a  sop  to  the  pit. 
That  Mr.  Jones  refused  to  write  curtain  raisers  is  readily 
understood;  that  he  refused  to  turn  seriously  to  the  writing 
of  one-act  plays  not  designed  to  amuse  the  pit  is  likewise 
conceivable.  Mr.  Jones'  contribution  to  the  modern  drama 
is  sufficient  as  it  is;  we  do  not  ask  him  to  write  one- 
act  masterpieces;  he  was  ready  to  do  so  at  one  time,  when 
there  was  no  one  to  use  them;  to-day  he  must  be  content 
merely  to  observe  radically  different  conditions,  and  recog- 
nize the  fact  that  times  have  changed. 

If  there  were  no  manager  to  welcome  the  author  of 
"Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel"  as  a  writer  of  one-act  plays, 
there  was  fortunately  an  Abbey  Theater  ready  and  eager  to 
demand  of  Synge  his  "Riders  to  the  Sea."  To  the  fact  that 
there  was  such  a  theater  in  Ireland  we  owe  the  masterpieces 
of  Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory  and  the  other  Irish  dramatists; 
and  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  had  it  not  been  for  Miss 
Horniman's  Gaiety  Theater,  Stanley  Houghton  and  Harold 
Brighouse  might  have  remained  at  their  desks  in  business 
offices. 


THE  ONE-ACT  PLAY  xiii 

If,  then,  there  is  finally  a  place  for  the  production  of  one- 
act  plays;  if,  as  is  evident,  the  one-act  form  is  gradually 
being  accepted  as  a  "respectable"  dramatic  medium,  I  am 
convinced  that  the  change  is  due  largely  to  the  fact  that  the 
one-act  form  is  being  accorded  the  respect  due  it  by  the 
dramatists  themselves.  And  this  in  turn  is  due  largely  to 
the  fact  that  a  place  has  been  made  for  the  form.  The  wide 
gulf  between  literature  and  the  drama  has  begun  to  be 
bridged:  Yeats  and  Synge  and  Barrie  have  seen  to  that. 

Barrett  H.  Clark 
June,  1921. 


REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
BY  BRITISH  AND  IRISH  AUTHORS 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE 

HEAD 

SIR  ARTHUR  PIXERO 

Arthur  Wing  Pinero  —  now  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  —  was  born 
at  London  in  1855.  Trained  at  first  for  the  law,  he  remained 
in  his  father's  law  office  until  he  was  nineteen,  when  he  be- 
came an  actor  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyndham,  playing  minor 
roles  for  a  year  in  Edinburgh.  His  next  venture  was  in  Liver- 
pool. In  1876  he  came  to  London  and  played  at  the  Globe 
Theater.  He  then  entered  Irving's  company  and  remained 
at  the  Lyceum  for  five  years.  During  this  time  the  young 
actor  had  been  writing  plays,  the  first  of  which,  "£200  a 
Year",  was  produced  at  the  Globe  in  1877.  "  Daisy's  Escape  " 
and  "Bygones"  were  produced  a  short  time  after  at  the 
Lyceum.  The  success  of  "Daisy's  Escape"  and  the  convic- 
tion that  he  was  not  destined  to  become  a  great  actor  induced 
him,  according  to  one  of  his  biographers,  to  abandon  acting 
and  devote  himself  entirely  to  the  writing  of  plays. 

"The  Squire"  (1881)  is  the  first  of  Pinero's  plays  that 
showed  promise.  The  following  year  William  Archer  wrote 
of  Pinero  as  "a  thoughtful  and  conscientious  writer  with 
artistic  aims,  if  not  yet  with  full  command  of  his  artistic 
means."  The  "artistic  means"  rapidly  developed,  for  in 
the  farces  "Dandy  Dick",  "The  Schoolmistress",  and 
''The  Magistrate"  the  dramatist  revealed  extraordinary 
skill  and  a  natural  bent  for  comedy.  "Sweet  Lavender" 
and  "The  Profligate",  plays  of  a  more  serious  character, 
followed  in  the  late  eighties.  "  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  " 
was  acclaimed  in  1893  as  the  finest  English  play  of  the  time. 
It  is  indubitably  one  of  the  most  effective  plays  of  that 
generation 


4  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

Pinero  is  master  of  the  dramatic  medium  he  has  chosen 
to  develop.  That  medium  has  been  often  criticized  as  formal, 
old-fashioned,  conventional ;  the  criticism  is  in  some  respects 
not  unwarranted,  though  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  made  is  rather 
an  indication  of  a  desire  to  applaud  other  dramatists  who 
have  departed  from  Pinero's  methods  than  properly  to  judge 
his  achievements.  Pinero  is  not  a  propagandist  or  a  special 
pleader;  he  has  no  aim  other  than  to  write  effective  plays 
about  the  men  and  women  of  his  time  as  he  sees  them. 

Pinero's  one-act  plays  are  not  an  integral  part  of  his 
work,  but  they  are  interesting  by-products.  Written  for 
particular  occasions,  they  reveal  the  skilled  hand  of  an  ac- 
complished dramatist. 


PLAYS 


Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 


*£200aYear  (1877) 
*Two    Can    Play    at    That 
Game  (1877) 

The  Comet  (1878) 
♦Daisy's  Escape  (1879) 
*Hester's  Mystery  (1880) 
*Bygones  (1880) 

The  Money-Spinner   (1880) 

Imprudence  (1881) 

The  Squire  (1881) 

Girls  and  Boys  (1882) 

The  Rector  (1883) 

Lords  and  Commons  (1883) 

The  Rocket  (1883) 

Low  Water  (1884) 

The  Ironmaster  (1884) 
(Adaptation) 

In  Chancery  (1884) 

The  Magistrate  (1885) 


Mayfair  (1885) 
(Adaptation) 
The  Schoolmistress  (1886) 
The  Hobby-Horse  (1886) 
Dandy  Dick  (1887) 
Sweet  Lavender  (1888) 
The  Weaker  Sex  (1889) 
The  Profligate  (1889) 
The       Cabinet        Minister 

(1890) 
Lady  Bountiful  (1891) 
The  Times  (1891) 
The  Amazons  (1893) 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tanque- 

ray  (1893) 
The  Notorious  Mrs.   Ebb- 
smith  (1895) 
The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt 
(1895) 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  5 

The  Princess  and  the  But-  The  "  Mind-the-Paint "  Girl 

terfly  (1897)  (1902) 

Trelawney  of  the  "Wells"  *The    Widow    of    Wasdale 

(1898)  Head  (1912) 

The  Gay  Lord  Quex  (1899)  *Playgoers  (1913) 

Iris  (1901)  The  Big  Drum  (1915) 

Letty  (1903)  *Mr.  Livermore's  Dream 
A   Wife   Without   a   Smile  (1917) 

(1904)  The  Freaks  (1918) 

His  House  in  Order  (1906)  *Monica's  Blue  Boy    (1918) 
The  Thunderbolt  (1908)  (Wordless  play  to  music 

Mid-Channel  (1909)  by  Sir  Frederic  Cowen) 

Preserving  Mr.  Panmure  Quick  Work  (1919) 

(1911) 

"The  Magistrate",  "The  Schoolmistress",  "The  Hobby- 
Horse",  "Sweet  Lavender",  "The  Weaker  Sex",  "The 
Profligate",  "The  Cabinet  Minister",  "Lady  Bountiful", 
"The  Times",  "The  Amazons",  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanque- 
ray",  "The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith",  "The  Gay  Lord 
Quex",  "Iris",  "Letty",  "A  Wife  Without  a  Smile",  "His 
House  in  Order",  "The  Thunderbolt",  "Mid-Channel", 
"Preserving  Mr.  Panmure",  "The  'Mind-the-Paint'  Girl", 
and  "The  Big  Drum"  are  published  separately  by  Walter 
H.  Baker,  Boston;  "The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt"  and  "Tre- 
lawney of  the  'Wells'",  by  the  Dramatic  Publishing  Com- 
pany, Chicago;  "The  Money-Spinner",  "The  Squire",  "The 
Rocket",  "In  Chancery",  "Hester's  Mystery",  "The 
Princess  and  the  Butterfly",  and  "Playgoers",  by  Samuel 
French,  New  York.— "The  Social  Plays  of  Arthur  Wing 
Pinero",  of  which  three  volumes  have  already  appeared, 
under  the  editorship  of  Clayton  Hamilton,  includes  "The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray",  "The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith", 
"Letty",  "Iris",  "His  House  in  Order",  and  "The  Gay  Lord 
Quex."  These  volumes  are  published  by  E.  P.  Dutton  and 
Company,  New  York. 

References:     Hamilton    Fyfe,    "Arthur    Wing    Pinero", 


6  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

Greening  and  Company,  London;  William  Archer,  "Real 
Conversations",  William  Heinemann,  London;  Oscar  Heer- 
mann,  "Living  Dramatists",  Brentano's,  New  York;  George 
Moore,  "Impressions  and  Opinions",  Brentano's;  Cecil  F. 
Armstrong,  "From  Shakespeare  to  Shaw",  Mills  and  Boon, 
London;  Clayton  Hamilton,  "Studies  in  Stagecraft",  "The 
Theory  of  the  Theater",  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New 
York,  and  "Introduction  and  Notes  to  The  Social  Plays  of 
Arthur  Wing  Pinero",  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company,  New 
York;  Brander  Matthews,  "Inquiries  and  Opinions", 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  and  "A  Study  of  the  Drama", 
Houghton,  Mifflin  Company,  Boston;  Arthur  Pinero, 
"Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  The  Dramatist",  Dramatic 
Museum,  Columbia  University,  New  York,  and  "Browning 
as  a  Dramatist",  London  (privately  printed). 

Magazines:  Munsey's,  vol.  x,  p.  247,  New  York;  Book- 
buyer,  vol.  xvii,  p.  301,  New  York;  Forum,  vol.  xxvi,  p.  119, 
vol.  xlvii,  p.  494,  New  York;  Theater,  vol.  xxxiv,  p.  3,  New 
York;  Nation,  vol.  lxxxiii,  p.  211,  New  York;  North  American 
Review,  vol.  clxxxviii,  p.  38,  New  York;  Critic,  vol.  xxxvii, 
p.  117,  New  York;  Collier's  Weekly,  vol.  xlviii,  p.  34,  New 
York;  Living  Age,  vol.  cclxxviii,  p.  265,  Boston;  Blackwood's, 
vol.  clxvii,  837,  London. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

A  FANTASY 


By  ARTHUR  PINERO 


"The  Widow  of  Wasdale  Head"  was  first  produced  at 
London  in  1912. 

Characters 

Sir  John  Hunslet 
Mr.  Edward  Fane 
Tubal  (A  servant  at  the  inn) 
Reuben  (Sir  John's  man) 
The  Visitor 
Mrs.  Jesmond 

Scene  :  A  room  in  an  inn  at  Wasdale  Head  in  Cumberland. 
Time:  In  the  reign  of  George  the  Third. 


Copyright,  1912,  by  Arthur  Pinero. 

All  rights  reserved 

Reprinted  from  the  private  copy,  "not  for  circulation",  by  special  arrangement  with 
Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  who  controls  all  the  rights  to  the  play. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

A  gloomy,  ancient  room,  partly  panelled  in  oak,  of  the  time 
of  Henry  the  Eighth.  Its  ceiling,  heavy  with  massive  beams, 
is  blackened  by  age;  and  altogether  the  apartment,  which  bears 
the  appearance  of  having  once  belonged  to  a  private  mansion,  is 
fallen  considerably  into  decay.  In  the  wall  on  the  right  there 
is  a  cavernous  fireplace;  facing  the  spectator  is  a  deep  bay- 
window,  heavily  shuttered  and  barred;  on  the  left  of  the  window, 
against  the  further  wall,  a  steep  staircase  mounts  to  a  landing 
from  which  a  door  opens  into  a  narrow  passage;  and  under  the 
landing,  in  the  left-hand  wall  and  on  the  level  of  the  floor,  there 
is  another  door,  also  admitting  to  a  passage. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  there  is  a  round  table  with  a  chair  on 
its  right  and  left.  A  decanter  of  red  wine  and  some  glasses,  a  jar 
of  tobacco  and  a  tray  of  clay  pipes,  and  a  candlestick  of  two 
branches  are  on  the  table.  Against  the  wall  on  the  left,  a  chair 
on  each  side  of  it,  is  an  escritoire,  and  on  the  top  of  the  escritoire 
is  a  standish;  and  against  the  staircase,  concealing  the  space 
beneath,  there  is  an  oaken  dresser  bright  with  crockery  ware, 
pewter  dishes  and  plates,  and  other  utensils.  In  the  bay  of 
the  window  are  a  small  table  and  stool.  A  riding-cloak  is 
thrown  over  the  stool,  and  lying  upon  the  table  are  a  hat,  a  riding- 
whip,  a  pair  of  gauntlets,  and  two  pistols  in  their  holster-cases. 
A  capacious  arm-chair  stands  before  the  fireplace,  and  within 
the  fireplace,  at  the  further  side,  there  is  a  chimney-seat.  A 
clock  and  a  chest  filled  with  logs  occupy  spaces  against  the 
right-hand  wall;  and  on  the  wall  against  which  runs  the  flight 
of  stairs  a  number  of  hunting  trophies  are  arranged,  including 
a  hunting-horn  hanging  by  a  cord  from  a  nail. 


10  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

The  room  is  lighted  by  the  candle  on  the  round  table  and  by 

candles  in  sconces  attached  to  the  wall  on  the  left.1     A  fire  is 

burning. 

Seated  at  the  round  table,  the  one  smoking  and  drinking,  the 

other  deep  in  thought,  are  Sir  John  Hunslet  and  Edward  Fane. 

Tubal  is  engaged  at  the  dresser.     The  wind  is  moaning. 

sir  john  (A  gallant-looking  gentleman  of  eight-and-twenty, 
accoutred  in  a  handsome  riding-dress  and  a  periwig — on 
the  left  of  the  table)  Ned,  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't 
drink ! 

edward  (^4  grave  young  man  of  twenty-five,  richly  but  soberly 
attired  and  wearing  his  own  dark  hair — rousing  himself  and 
filling  his  glass)  A  thousand  pardons,  Jack!  (Drinking) 
Welcome ! 

[Tubal,  bearing  a  pair  of  snuffers  upon  a  dish,  advances  to 
the  round  table  and  trims  the  candles.  The  moaning  of  the 
wind  rises  to  a  howl. 

sir  john  (to  Tubal).     A  wild  night,  my  friend. 

tubal  (A  venerable,  wizen  figure,  half  groom,  half  waiter). 
Aye,  an'  'tis  like  t'  be  warser  afwore  mworn.  Theer'll  be 
sleats  lowsed  an'  fleein'  this  neet,  depend  on't.  Heav'n 
send  th'  chimley-stacks  do  hod  oot ! 

sir  john.  Amen!  (Tubal  replaces  the  snuffers  upon  the 
dresser.  There  is  a  sharp,  shrill  sound  from  without,  resem- 
bling the  cry  of  a  bird)     What  is  that? 

edward.  The  sign  of  the  house.  'Twill  creak  in  that  fashion, 
in  the  wind,  for  hours. 

sir  JOHN.  'Gad,  an  agreeable  prospect!  (Tubal,  carrying  a 
tray  upon  which  are  some  remnants  of  a  meal,  goes  out  at  the 
door  under  the  landing.  Sir  John,  glancing  over  his  shoulder, 
assures  himself  that  he  and  Edward  are  alone)  At  last! 
(Rekindling  his  pipe  at  the  flame  of  one  of  the  candles)  I 
thought  that  ancient  servitor  would  never  leave  us.  (Ed- 
ward rises  and,  walking  away,  stands  gazing  into  the  fire) 
And  now,  my  dear  Ned  —  my  very  dear  Ned — in  amicitid 

i  Throughout,  "right"  and  "left"  are  the  spectators'  right  and  left,  not 
the  actor's. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  11 


autem  nihil  fictum,  as  we  learned  to  say  at  school  —  let  me 
inform  you  without  further  delay  of  the  cause  of  this  in- 
trusion. 

edward.  'Tis  no  intrusion;  and,  to  be  candid,  I  have 
guessed  the  object  of  your  visit  already. 

sir  john.     Indeed?    That  being  the  case 

edward.  Confound  you,  Jack,  you  don't  suppose  I  attribute 
your  sudden  and  unlooked-for  appearance  to  mere  inclina- 
tion for  a  gossip  over  a  bottle!  A  man — Jack  Hunslet 
least  of  all — does  not  quit  town  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
journeying  three  hundred  miles  into  the  bargain,  without 
an  urgent  reason.  (Facing  Sir  John)  Confess  you  are 
upon  a  mission. 

sir  john  (smiling).     Since  you  press  me 

edward.     You  are  sent  by  my  mother. 

sir  john.  The  poor  fond  lady  is  vastly  concerned  at  your 
absence. 

edward.  In  the  name  of  patience,  why?  Her  letters 
plague  me  to  death,  Jack. 

shi  john.  My  good  Ned,  do,  I  entreat,  reflect.  With  your 
usual  perspicacity  you  have  just  observed  that  it  must  be 
a  strong  inducement  that  draws  a  town  man  into  the 
country  at  this  season.     And  yet 

edward.  Such  an  inducement  was  mine.  I  came  into 
Cumberland  in  fulfilment  of  a  pledge  to  Sir  Roger  Boult- 
wood  —  a  pledge  of  long  standing 

sir  john.  To  be  his  guest  at  Hawkshead  Priory.  Your  stay 
at  Hawkshead  ended  two  months  ago. 

edward.  In  the  meanwhile  I  had  become  bitten  by  the 
romantic  beauty  of  the  district.  By  the  Lord,  Jack,  'tis  a 
lovely  locality,  in  spite  of  flood  and  tempest! 

sir  john.  Ah,  I  am  forgetting  you  are  a  poet,  and  a  mon- 
strous pretty  one  to  boot! 

edward.     Pshaw!   Pray  don't  roast  me  for  my  follies. 

sir  john  (laying  his  -pipe  aside).  My  dear  fellow,  if  our 
follies  ceased  with  the  scribbling  of  verses,  we  should  be 
warranted  in  esteeming  ourselves  wise.    (Rising)    And  so 


U  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

'tis  solely  the  beauty  of  the  district  that  detains  you,  hey, 
Ned? 

edward.  Chance  directed  rue  to  this  particular  spot;  and 
my  nag  falling  lame  almost  at  the  door  here 

sir  johx  (approaching  Edward).  You  determined  to  cul- 
tivate the  muse,  and  to  seek  inspiration,  by  this  sombre 
lake;  (producing  his  snuff-box)  putting  up  at  a  bare  inn, 
(significantly)  and  despatching  your  servant  back  to  Kens- 
ington within  a  fortnight. 

edward  (embarrassed).  Why,  as  forth  at,  I  —  I  found  I  had 
little  need  for  Gregory.  He  did  but  kick  his  heels  about 
the  place  discontentedly. 

sir  john  (taking  snuff).  The  sublimity  of  the  scene  proving 
less  attractive  to  him  than  to  his  master.  (Closing  his 
snuff-box)     Well? 

edward.     W-well? 

sir  johx.  And  when  I  have  made  my  compliments  at 
Hawkshead  and,  with  your  aid,  explored  this  enchanting 
neighbourhood,  do  we  travel  home  in  company?  (There  is 
a  moment's  hesitation  on  Edward's  part,  and  then  he  moves  to 
the  middle  of  the  room  without  speaking.  Sir  John  looks 
after  him  inquiringly)     Xed! 

edward  (hanging  his  head).  Forgive  me,  Jack.  I  declare 
again  'tis  the  most  beautiful  district  in  the  kingdom; 
nevertheless,  I  am  deceiving  you,  Jack,  woefully. 
[The  door  under  the  landing  opens  and  Mrs.  Jesmond  enters 
followed  by  Tubal,  the  latter  carrying  a  bowl  of  steaming 
punch,  and  instantly  the  wind  increases  in  force  and  the  sign- 
board resumes  its  squeaking.  The  loud  slamming  of  distant 
doors  is  also  heard.  Mrs.  Jesmond  is  an  elegant,  girlish 
young  lady,  charmingly  but  simply  dressed.  She  curtsies  to 
Sir  John  and  to  Edward  and  then  takes  the  bowl  from  Tubal 
and  places  it  upon  the  round  table. 

mrs.  jesmond  (to  Tubal).  Secure  the  doors  of  the  buttery, 
Tubal;  'tis  they  that  are  banging.  (Tubal  shuffles  out  and 
Mrs.  Jesmond  addresses  Sir  John,  wlio  is  regarding  her  with 
respectful  amazement.   The  wind  lulls)  I  am  sorry  I  was  not 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  13 

by  to  receive  you,  sir.  Late  as  it  was,  I  was  at  my  farm  at 
Burnthwaite  where  I  am  in  trouble  with  some  sick  beasts. 
I  hear  you  have  rid  from  Ulverston  to-day,  which  is  a 
weary  road. 

sir  john  (stammering).     Why,  yes,  I  —  I 

edward  (presenting  Sir  John).  This  gentleman  is  my  friend 
Sir  John  Hunslet 

MRS.  jesmond  (curtseying  again).  Nay,  if  I  had  not  been 
apprised  of  his  arrival,  there  would  be  no  necessity  to  name 
him.  (Advancing  to  Sir  John)  I  saw  Sir  John  once,  when 
I  was  a  child,  driving  his  curricle  in  Hyde  Park,  and  am 
never  likely  to  forget  the  fine  show  he  made. 

sir  john  (bowing  low) .  Madam,  I  —  I  —  I  am  vastly  honoured 
by  your  recollection  of  the  circumstance. 

mrs.  jesmond.  Mr.  Fane  is  heartily  glad  to  see  you  here, 
Sir  John;  of  that  I  am  assured.  Wasdale  Head  is  but  a 
stern  and  solitary  spot  at  all  times,  and  March  our  drea- 
riest month.1 

sir  john.  'Faith,  ma'am,  Mr.  Fane  is  no  more  rejoiced  to 
see  me  than  I  him.  We  were  condiscipuli  at  Winchester 
College  and  I  hold  him  in  great  affection.  (Bowing  again 
profoundly)  And  suffer  me  to  add  that  it  increases  my 
happiness  in  no  inconsiderable  degree 

mrs.  jesmond  (turning  to  Edward  merrily).  La!  I  fear  Sir 
John  doth  not  even  yet  apprehend  who  and  what  I  am. 
Pray  enlighten  him. 

edward  (on  the  left).  Mrs.  Jesmond,  Jack,  is  mistress  of 
this  inn  and  tenant  also  of  lands  adjacent  to  it.  (Another 
bow  from  Sir  John,  whose  wonderment  increases)  'Twill 
make  you  better  acquainted  with  her  when  I  tell  you  that 
she  was  Miss  Woodroffe  —  Miss  Elizabeth  Woodroffe  of 
Appleby. 

sir  john.  One  of  the  Woodroffes  of  Appleby !  (Seizing  Mrs. 
Jesmond' s  hand)     My  dear  madam! 

mrs.  jesmond  (withdrawing  her  hand).  Nay,  sir;  my  family 
and  I  are  at  enmity.  (Mournfully)  Widow  of  Mr.  Henry 
1  Wasdale: — pronounced  Wassdale,  the  a  as  in  was. 


14  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

Jesmond  of  Egremont;  I  prefer  that  description. 

sir  john.     A  widow,  ma'am! 

mrs.  jesmond  (dropping  another  curtsey).  Two  years  a 
widow,  and  a  humble  taverner  and  farmer;  and  at  your 
service.  (To  Edward)  I  have  brought  you  a  bowl  of 
punch,  Mr.  Fane,  thinking  it  will  be  grateful  to  your 
friend  after  his  long  journey.  (To  Sir  John)  'Tis  of  my 
mixing,  and  I  beg  your  indulgence  for  the  widow's  offering. 

sir  john.  'Gad,  madam,  I  swear  you  shall  join  us!  (To 
Edward,  who  goes  to  the  dresser)     A  third  glass,  Ned ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (hastening  to  the  staircase).  Oh,  mercy,  Sir 
John ! 

sir  john  (following  her  and  regaining  possession  of  her  hand). 
I  insist !   (Leading  her  to  the  round  table)  On  my  knees ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (laughing).     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

[The  wind  howls  again  and  the  sign-board  creaks.  Edward 
carries  three  glasses  to  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Jesmond  fills  two 
of  the  glasses  to  the  brim  and  hands  them  to  the  gentlemen  who 
stand  one  on  each  side  of  her.  As  she  ladles  a  little  of  the 
punch  into  the  third  glass,  the  wind  abates. 

sir  john  (at  the  right  of  the  table).  Come,  ma'am;  bumpers! 
Ah,  but  that's  not  fair !  Bumpers !  (The  men  drink,  and  Mrs. 
Jesmond  touches  her  lips  with  her  glass)  'Pon  my  soul,  'tis 
delicious!  'Tis  nectar!  I  lie  facit  dites  animos  deus,  Ned; 
you  remember!  (To  Mrs.  Jesmond)  Permit  me  to  com- 
pliment you  on  your  skill,  ma'am. 

mrs.  jesmond  (replenishing  the  men's  glasses,  modestly).  The 
credit  is  none  of  mine,  Sir  John.  (In  a  sad  voice)  'Twas 
my  dear  Harry  that  taught  me. 

sir  john  (coughing  sympathetically).  Ahem!  Ahem!  (Ab- 
ruptly) A  toast!  I  call  a  toast,  Ned!  (Raising  his  glass 
and  looking  at  Mrs.  Jesmond  with  admiration)  I  give 
you 

mrs.  jesmond  (quickly,  raising  her  glass).     The  King! 

sir  john.  Why,  certainly,  ma'am;  and  I  am  obleeged  to 
you  for  the  reminder.  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King 
George ! 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  15 

edward  (drinking).     The  King! 

sir  john  (drinking).    God  bless  him!    (Looking  at  Mrs.  Jes- 

mond  again)     Another! 
mrs.  jesmond.     Nay;  spare  me! 
sir  john.  Ned !   (Raising  his  glass)  To  the  Lady  of  Was- 

dale! 
edward.     The  Lady  of  Wasdale ! 

[The  wind  gives  a  sudden  roar  as  the  men  drink  the  toast,  and 

then  subsides. 
mrs.  jesmond  (curtseying  once  more).  The  widow  thanks  you, 

gentlemen,  for  your  amiability;  and  with  a  full  heart. 

(With  a  change  of  manner)     And  now,  if  you  will  excuse  me, 

I  will  go  to  your  bedchambers  and  see  that  your  beds  are 

properly  prepared. 
sir  john  (seizing  the  candlestick  from  the  round  table) .    Allow 

me  to  light  you,  ma'am. 
mrs.  jesmond  (running  up  the  stairs).    'Tis  not  necessary;  a 

lantern  hangs  in  the  corridor. 

[She  makes  a  final  curtsey  on  the  landing  and  withdraws, 

leaving  Sir  John  half-way  up  the  stairs  where  he  remains  for 

a  while  as  if  rooted.    Edward  walks  over  to  the  fireplace  and 

again  gazes  down  into  the  burning  logs. 
sir  john  (after  a  silence).    As  I  live,  an  adorable  creature! 

(He  descends  the  stairs  softly,  replaces  the  candlestick,  and 

stands  contemplating  Edward)     Ned! 
edward.     Jack? 
sir  john.     Ton  my  conscience,  you  are  right;  Wasdale  is 

the  most  beautiful  district  in  the  kingdom! 
edward  (turning  to  him).  Ah,  Jack,  'tis  no  matter  for  jesting. 
sir  john.     Jesting!   I  swear  I  am  all  seriousness. 
edward  (ardently).    Nay,  then,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  is  she 

not  charming? 
sir  john.  Charming?  A  divinity!  (W alking  about  animatedly) 

'Gad,  you  may  well  describe  this  as  a  romantic  locality! 
A  Woodroffe  of  Appleby  the  mistress  of  a  house  of  public 
entertainment!  Prodigious!  (Sitting  in  the  chair  on  the  left 
of  the  round  table)     How  the  devil ! 


16  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

edward  (coming  to  the  right  of  the  table).  'Tis  a  simple  story. 
Young  Mr.  Henry  Jesmond  of  Egremont,  having  squan- 
dered the  greater  part  of  his  patrimony,  established  him- 
self here,  with  what  remained  of  his  fortune,  as  farmer  and 
innkeeper.  A  short  time  previously,  he  had  met  Miss 
Elizabeth  Woodroffe  at  the  Hunt  Assembly  at  Kendal,  and 
they  had  become  desperately  taken  with  each  other.  Her 
parents,  discovering  the  undesirable  attachment,  inter- 
cepted communication  between  the  lovers  and  confined 
their  child  within  doors.  Vain  precautions!  Elizabeth 
forced  an  escape,  ran  off  with  the  object  of  her  girlish 
infatuation,  and  married  him. 

sir  john.  'Faith,  since  she  hath  been  two  years  a  widow, 
he  must  have  carried  her  to  church  in  a  go-cart! 

edward.  She  was  indeed  but  fifteen.  She  is  little  over 
seventeen  now. 

sir  john.     The  deuce!  'Twas  a  brief  wedded  life. 

edward.     A  month. 

sir  john.     Good  Lud! 

edward.  Riding  homeward  on  a  dark  night  with  some  boon 
companions  from  the  hunt  at  Muncaster,  Mr.  Jesmond  was 
thrown  and  mortally  hurt.  He  breathed  long  enough,  so 
the  tale  is  told,  to  take  his  pistol  from  its  holster  and  to 
shoot  his  poor  mare,  who  had  broke  a  leg;  and  then  he  laid 
his  head  upon  her  warm  ribs  and  stirred  no  more. 

sir  john  (shocked).  My  dear  Ned!  (Fastidiously)  Leaving 
this  delicately -bred  young  lady,  estranged  from  her  fam- 
ily, to  brew  punch,  and  to  till  the  soil,  for  her  subsistence! 

edward  (sitting  at  the  right  of  the  table).  Why,  Jack,  there's 
the  wonder  of  it!  Mrs.  Jesmond's  aptitude  is  amazing. 
Among  the  farmers  hereabouts  —  statesmen,  they  term 
them  in  Cumberland  —  there's  not  one  can  match  her  in 
knowledge  of  crops  and  cattle.  (The  wind  murmurs  gently, 
almost  musically)  I  have  seen  the  oldest  and  wisest  of  them 
approach  her,  hat  in  hand,  to  ask  her  counsel  in  a  difficulty; 
and  her  reply  is  always  the  same. 

sir  john.     The  same? 


THE  WIDOW   OF  WASDALE  HEAD  17 

edward.  "Come  back  to  me,"  she  will  say,  "as  soon  as  you 
please  after  Friday,  and  you  shall  have  my  advice.'' 

sir  john.     Friday? 

edward  (checking  himself  and  then  nodding  uneasily) .  Er  — 
'tis  on  a  Friday  night,  when  her  household  is  abed  and  the 
inn  is  silent,  that  she  sits  here  alone  and  reads  her  farming- 
manuals,  and  makes  up  her  books  of  account,  and  puts  on 
her  considering-cap,  as  she  phrases  it.  (Looking  round) 
We  are  in  her  parlour,  Jack. 

sir  john  (listening).  How  the  wind  sings!  It  hath  a  voice 
in  it,  positively!    (To  Edward)     Her  parlour? 

edward  (nodding  again).  Aye;  the  principal  guest-chambers 
are  shut  throughout  the  winter,  and  so  she  hath  placed  her 
room  at  my  disposal.  Every  Fiiday  night,  at  the  stroke 
of  ten,  I  leave  her  here,  preparing  for  her  vigil.  (Suddenly) 
What  is  to-day? 

sir  john.     Friday. 

[The  wind  utters  a  loud  wail  and  the  sign-board  creaks. 

edward  (rising  and  glancing  at  the  clock).  And  look;  'tis 
close  on  ten  now. 

[He  resumes  his  former  position  at  the  fireplace  and  the  wind 
its  tuneful  murmuring. 

sir  john  (after  another  silence).  Well,  I  own  I  am  mightily 
relieved,  Ned.  (Rising)  'Tis  precisely  as  I  suspected  —  that 
you  had  become  entangled  in  a  petticoat;  (going  to  the 
punch-bowl  and  helping  himself  to  punch)  but  a  Woodroffe 
of  Appleby  is  naught  to  be  ashamed  of,  though  'twill  be 
the  tittle-tattle  of  the  clubs  and  tea-tables  that  your 
mistress  hath  kept  a  mug-house.  (Drinking)  Have  you 
declared  yourself  yet? 

edward  (still  staring  into  the  fire).     No. 

sir  john  (smacking  his  lips).  'Pon  my  honour,  she  is  vastly 
genteel;  she  hath  the  bel  air  completely!  I  wager  many 
of  our  town  misses  and  madams  —  (He  breaks  of,  regarding 
Edward  with  surprise.  The  wind  ceases)  Why,  man,  what 
ails  you?  If  Mrs.  Jesmond  had  declined  your  suit,  you 
could  hardly  be  more  glum. 


18  THE  WIDOW   OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

edward  (confronting  Sir  John).     Jack! 

sir  john  (startled  at  Edward's  aspect).    Ned? 

edward.   Oh,  Jack,  I  must  confide  in  you!   I  am  in  torture! 

sir  john.     Torture? 

edward.     Terrible,  grinding  torment! 

sir  john  (joining  Edward) .  Odds  life,  what's  this !  Have  you 
discovered  that  the  widow  wears  a  false  curl  or  two? 

edward.  For  mercy's  sake,  don't  take  me  lightly!  (In  a 
whisper)     Jack,  there  is  a  mystery  in  this  house. 

sir  john.     Confusion! 

edward.  A  hideous  mystery.  (Passing  Sir  John  and  pacing 
the  room  on  the  left)  And  'tis  torturing  me -driving  me  to 
distraction;  and  yet  I  lack  the  courage  to  attempt  to  un- 
ravel it. 

sir  john  (coming  to  the  round  table).     Explain,  Ned! 

edward.  Oh,  Jack,  'tis  true  that  I  leave  Mrs.  Jesmond 
here,  and  alone,  every  Friday  night;  (halting)  but  —  Heaven 
forgive  me  for  doubting  her !  —  (laughing  mirthlessly)  ha,  ha, 
ha,  ha !  —  I  fear  she  doesn't  remain  alone,  Jack. 

sir  john.     The  devil ! 

edward  (gripping  the  back  of  the  chair  at  the  left  of  the  round 
table).  Hell  fury,  no;  unless  she  hath  the  habit  of  talking 
to  herself,  her  vigil  is  no  solitary  one! 

sir  john.     Talking  to  herself! 

edward  (sitting  and  putting  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  digging 
his  fingers  into  his  hair) .  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  (Groaning)  Oh, 
Jack,  Jack! 

[Again  there  is  a  pause.   Sir  John  slowly  produces  his  snuff- 
box. 

sir  john.  Humph!  (Tapping  the  box)  'Gad,  you  disappoint 
me,  Ned;  you  do  really!  Who  would  have  thought  it  of 
her?  (Taking  snuff)  Pish!  The  jades;  they  are  all  of  a 
pattern!     (To  Edward)     When ?      \The  wind  revives. 

edward  (raising  his  head).  'Twas  the  Friday  night  in  the 
second  week  of  my  lodging  here,  and  I  had  retired  to  my 
bedchamber  carrying  with  me  the  delightful  vision  of  her 
graceful,  slender  form  as  she  sate,  in  this  chair,  bending  over 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  19 

her  books  and  papers.  Some  time  after  reaching  my 
apartment,  I  recollected  that  I  had  left  a  letter  from  my 
mother  lying  upon  the  escritoire  yonder;  and  I  ordered  my 
servant  to  fetch  it.  Presently  the  man  reappeared,  saying 
that,  hearing  Mrs.  Jesmond's  voice  apparently  in  conver- 
sation, he  had  deemed  it  prudent  not  to  risk  incurring  her 
displeasure  by  disturbing  her. 

sir  john.     In  conversation? 

edward.  I  dismissed  Gregory  and  stood  for  a  while  at  my 
window,  viewing  the  thick  clouds  scudding  across  the 
Pikes.  Suddenly  the  idea  possessed  me  to  return,  myself, 
to  this  room  and  recover  my  letter.  Ha!  The  letter  con- 
tained nothing  of  a  private  nature.  I  perceive  now  that 
'twas  merely  a  feeling  of  jealous  surprise  that  impelled  me. 

sir  john  (his  foot  upon  the  rail  of  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the 
round  table).     You  returned? 

edward.  Yes.  My  ear  was  at  the  door,  and  I  was  waver- 
ing whether  I  should  rap,  when  I  was  arrested  by  a  sound 
behind  me;  and  there  was  my  servant,  sheltered  in  an  angle 
of  the  corridor,  watching  me  curiously.  I  made  an  idle 
remark  and  again  retired  to  my  room;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing I  packed  the  fellow  off  to  London,  lest,  his  suspicions 
being  aroused,  he  should  play  the  spy  on  his  own  account. 

sir  john.     What  had  you  heard  while  listening  at  the  door? 

edward.  The  low  muttering  of  a  voice,  or  of  voices.  I 
could  distinguish  nothing  clearly,  save  that  there  was  talk- 
ing. {Glancing  at  the  door  on  the  landing)  The  door  is 
stout  and,  as  you  see,  distant. 

sir  john.     And  since  then? 

edward.  Every  Friday  night  'tis  the  same.  I  steal  to  the 
door,  hear  the  same  whisperings,  and  slink  back  irreso- 
lutely to  my  bedchamber.  Stay!  Twice  or  thrice  I  have 
heard  a  soft,  wailful  note,  as  if  from  an  instrument,  pro- 
ceeding from  this  room. 

sir  john  {bringing  himself  erect).     A  signal! 

edward.  'Sdeath,  the  thought  hath  crossed  my  mind !  (He 
rises  and,  ascending  the  stairs,  removes  the  hunting-horn  from 


20  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

its  nail)     'Tis  such  an  instrument  as  this  that  would  pro- 
duce the  sound. 

sir  joiin  (following  Edward  and  standing  by  the  dresser).  A 
hunting-horn. 

edward.  'Twas  the  property  of  the  late  Mr.  Jesmond,  I 
suspect.  (Doubtfully)  But  'tis  dull  for  want  of 
use. 

sir  john.  Nay,  'tis  you  that  are  dull.  Look  if  its  mouth  is 
bright. 

edward  (examining  the  mouth  of  the  horn).  Why,  yes;  the 
metal  here  shines  like  a  guinea! 

sir  joiin.  Ha!  I  lay  five  to  four  that  is  not  the  only  mouth 
pressed  by  those  lips  of  hers!  (Edivard  replaces  the  horn 
and  descends  the  stairs)  My  poor  dear  Ned,  'tis  as  plain 
as  noonday;  the  widow's  weekly  vigil  is  but  a  ruse  for 
entertaining  her  amoret  at  her  ease.  The  trull!  Fronti 
nulla  fides!  But  you  shall  expose  her,  and  to-night.  (Look- 
ing at  the  door  on  the  landing  and  then  pointing  to  the  fire) 
Quick;  some  ashes  from  the  hearth!  I'll  fill  the  lock  with 
'em  and  stop  her  turning  the  key. 

edward  (who  is  again  at  the  fireplace  gazing  into  the  logs). 
There  is  no  lock  on  either  door.  They  are  bolted  from  with- 
out. 

sir  john.  Strange!  The  widow  is  somewhat  incautious. 
However,  'twill  make  your  task  the  easier.  (Edward  faces 
Sir  John  with  a  gesture  of  protest)  Come,  man,  away  with 
your  scruples!  We  will  leave  the  pretty  witch  to  her  pre- 
tence of  poring  over  her  damnable  books;  and  then  you 
shall  return  and  walk  boldly  in,  and  interrupt  her  at  her 
devotions. 

edward.     By  what  right,  Jack? 

sir  john.  Pshaw !  Do  you  imagine  she  isn't  aware  that  you 
are  honestly  enamoured  of  her,  though  no  word  hath  yet 
been  spoke?  There  is  title  sufficient  for  you.  (Sharply) 
Is  your  sword  hanging  in  your  bedchamber? 

edward.     Yes. 

sir  john.     Put  it  up  at  your  side. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  21 

edward.  Why,  would  you  have  me  a  murderer  as  well  as 
an  eavesdropper? 

sir  john.  'Faith,  I'd  have  you  ready  to  defend  yourself.  A 
young  lady  of  ton  would  scarcely  dally  with  one  of  the  clods 
of  this  beautiful  district.  (Going  to  the  table  in  the  bay  of  the 
window  and  examining  the  pistols)  'Tis  to  a  gentleman  of 
the  road,  probably  —  a  cut-throat  highwayman  —  that  she 
extends  her  hospitality.  (Taking  up  his  hat,  whip,  and 
gauntlets,  and  carefidly  laying  his  cloak  over  the  pistols) 
These  pistols  are  well  primed.  I'll  warn  Reuben  not  to 
remove  them. 

edward  (bursting  out).     Oh,  Jack,  Jack,  'tis  impossible! 

sir  john.     Impossible? 

edward  (ivalking  across  the  room).  'Tis  impossible  that 
she  should  be  frail.  I'll  not  believe  it.  She  hath  the  look 
and  the  bearing  of  an  angel.  Her  eyes,  Jack!  Did  you 
observe  her  eyes? 

sir  john  (standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire).  Hang  'em,  they 
are  brilliant! 

edward.  Nay,  they're  not  brilliant.  They  resemble  the 
blue  of  a  summer  morning  ere  the  mist  is  dispelled.  (Pac- 
ing up  and  down)     Her  voice  too!   Her  voice! 

sir  john.     'Tis  most  musical,  I  admit. 

edward.  Her  voice  hath  the  quality  of  the  harp  in  it,  when 
its  strings  are  half  muffled.  (Fiercely)  Mark  me,  Jack,  if  I 
find  her  no  better  than  she  should  be,  I'll  never  trust 
woman  again! 

sir  john  (taking  snuff) .     Ned 

edward.     Never!   Never! 

sir  john.  Ned,  I  protest  you  recall  Mr.  Garrick  to  me,  as 
the  blackamoor  in  Shakespeare's  play. 

edward.     Ah ! 

sir  john.     When  the  great  little  man  quits  the  stage,  you 
shall  fill  his  place,  my  dear  Ned;  I  vow  you  shall. 
[The  wind  swells  for  a  moment  as  Mrs.  Jesmond  enters  at  the 
door  under  the  landing,  followed  by  Tubal,  with  a  lantern, 
and  by  Reuben  who  is  carrying  two  lighted  candles  in  candle- 


%Z  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

sticks.     Tubal  goes  to  the  window  and,  raising  the  lantern 
above  his  head,  passes  his  hand  over  the  bars  of  the  shutters. 

MRS.  jesmond  (to  Edward,  sweetly  but  gravely).  'Tis  past 
ten  o'clock.  (Glancing  at  Sir  John)  You  have  told  Sir 
John? 

sir  john  (advancing  a  few  steps).  Why,  yes,  ma'am;  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to  find  myself  in  a 
soft  bed,  and  between  a  pair  of  sweet-smelling  sheets,  at 
an  earlier  hour  than  is  customable  with  me. 

reuben  (a  bluff,  burly  fellow  —  standing  by  the  table) .  Nor  I 
either,  sir.  For  of  all  the  clattering,  gusty  places  I've  ever 
laid  in,  this  Wasdale  is  the  gustiest  and  the  clatteringest  — 
(to  Mrs.  Jesmond)  saving  your  presence,  ma'am. 

sir  john.  Silence,  Reuben!  (To  Mrs.  Jesmond,  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand  towards  Reuben)  A  good,  faithful  animal,  Mrs. 
Jesmond,  but  plaguily  rough-tongued. 

reuben.  Well,  sir,  my  tongue  can't  be  rougher  than  the 
Cumberland  weather;  that's  one  comfort.  (Going  to  Edward 
and  presenting  him  with  a  candlestick  as  Mrs.  Jesmond 
crosses  to  Sir  John)  You'd  best  shield  it  with  your  hand, 
Mr.  Fane 

mrs.  jesmond  (to  Sir  John).  Good-night,  Sir  John.  (Curt- 
seying) 'Tis  mighty  civil  of  you  to  profess  your  willing- 
ness to  be  sent  to  bed  like  a  bad  child.  (Giving  him  her 
hand)  You  must  dream  you  are  in  London,  sir,  and  card- 
playing  en  petit  comite  with  some  choice  cronies. 

sir  john  (bending  over  her  hand).  Nay,  madam,  my  dreams 
shall  be  of  a  far  more  interesting  sort,  I  promise  you. 
[She  curtsies  to  him  again  and  returns  to  Edward  who  is 
watching  her  narrowly.  Tubal  is  now  at  the  fireplace, 
mending  the  fire,  and  Reuben  at  the  table  in  the  bay 
window. 

mrs.  jesmond  (giving  her  hand  to  Edward,  a  note  of  tenderness 
in  her  voice).     Good-night,  Mr.  Fane. 

edward  (with  downcast  eyes).     Good-night. 

[He  moves  away  and  Mrs.  Jesmond  goes  to  the  escritoire  and 
opens  it  with  a  key  which  dangles  with  others  from  her  waist. 


THE  WIDOW  OF   WASDALE  HEAD  23 

Seeing  that  Reuben  is  taking  up  the  riding-cloak  and  the 
pistols,  Sir  John  hastens  to  him  on  tiptoe. 

sir  john  (under  his  breath,  to  Reuben).     No! 

reuben  (astonished).     Sir! 

sir  john  (his  finger  to  his  lips).  Ssst!  (He  motions  to  Reuben 
to  replace  the  pistols  and  riding-cloak.  Reuben  does  so) 
And  now,  my  dear  Ned — (taking  his  candle  from  Reuben 
and  yawning  demonstratively)  ah-h-h-h!  —  I  declare  I  am 
as  sleepy  as  the  veriest  owl.  (He  signs  to  Edward  to  pre- 
cede him,  but  Edward  yields  him  the  pas)  My  dear  fellow! 
(He  ascends  the  stairs,  Edward  following  him,  as  Mrs.  Jes- 
mond  carries  some  books  to  the  round  table  and  deposits  them 
there.  Sir  John  makes  her  a  grand  bow  from  the  landing, 
Edward  a  lesser  one)  My  dear  madam ! 
[Mrs.  Jesmond  curtsies  to  them  deeply  and  returns  to  the 
escritoire.  Sir  John  and  Edward  retire.  Tubal  shuffles 
across  the  room  on  his  way  to  the  door  under  the 
landing. 

reuben  (in  a  low  voice,  clapping  Tubal  on  the  back).  Good- 
night, old  buck!  (Tubal  has  a  fit  of  coughing)  Why,  a 
man  of  your  kidney  should  be  in  London.  You'd  turn 
all  the  girls'  heads  in  London  within  a  week.  (To 
Mrs.  Jesmond,  as  he  goes  up  the  stairs)  Good-night, 
ma'am. 

MRS.  jesmond  (bringing  more  books  and  some  papers  to  the 
table).     Good-night,  friend. 

[Reuben  withdraws,  closing  the  door. 

tubal  (at  the  door  under  the  landing,  to  Mrs.  Jesmond).  Be 
theer  owt  else  I  can  do  fer  'ee? 

mrs.  jesmond.  No,  I  thank  you,  Tubal.  Are  the  maids  in 
their  beds? 

tubal.  Aye,  an'  deid  asleeap,  I  reckon,  t'hussies!  Good- 
neet,  mistress. 

mrs.  jesmond.     Good-night. 

[Tubal  disappears,  closing  the  door,  and  the  wind  again  be- 
comes violent  and  the  sign-board  squeals  as  if  in  pain.  Mrs. 
Jesmond  remains  quite  still  for  a  while;  then,  deliberately  and 


24  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

methodically,  and  with  an  altered  look  on  her  face,  she  clears 
the  table  of  the  punch-bowl,  the  decanter  and  glasses,  and  the 
pipes  and  tobacco — carrying  them  to  the  dresser  —  and  fetches 
the  standish  from  the  escritoire.  Having  neatly  set  out  her 
books  and  papers  and  the  standish  upon  the  table,  she  goes  to 
the  lower  door,  opens  it  a  few  inches  and,  after  peeping  along 
the  passage,  shuts  the  door  silently.  She  repeats  this  proceed- 
ing at  the  door  on  the  landing  and  finally,  apparently  satisfied, 
comes  half-way  down  the  stairs  and  unliooks  the  hunting-horn 
from  the  wall  and  blows  a  long,  faint  blast  upon  it;  whereupon 
the  wind  gives  a  thundering  bellow,  the  flames  of  the  candles 
flicker,  and  for  a  moment  there  is  almost  total  darkness. 
Then  a  bluish  light  pervades  the  room  and  the  Ghost  of  a 
young  man  in  hunting-dress  and  a  bob-icig  is  seen,  standing 
in  an  easy  attitude  with  its  back  to  the  fire.  There  is  another 
loud  gust,  followed  by  the  crash  of  falling  slates. 

mrs.  jesmond  (regarding  the  Ghost  with  a  tender  expression  and 
speaking  in  soft,  caressing  tones).  That's  the  slates  of  the 
old  lean-to  in  the  stable-yard. 

ghost  (in  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  manner).  Well,  you  raun 
ha'  'em  put  on  again,  Betty.  Gi'  th'  job  to  Hobbs  at  Ulver- 
ston.  I'm  sick  o'  Finch  of  Gosforth;  leastways  I  was,  be- 
fore I  met  wi'  my  accident. 

[Mrs.  Jesmond  replaces  the  hunting-horn  and  descends  the 
stairs.     Gradually  the  wind  drops. 

mrs.  jesmond.  'Tis  a  terrible  night  for  you  to  be  abroad, 
Hal.     I  had  almost  hoped  you  wouldn't  obey  my  summons. 

ghost  (pulling  off  its  filmy  gloves) .  Eh,  there  you  go,  lass ! 
How  oft  have  I  told  thee  th'  weather  makes  no  difference 
to  me!     (Gloomily)     All  weather's  one  t'  a  ghost. 

mrs.  jesmond  (with  a  sigh).  Yes,  I  forget.  (Looking  down 
at  her  books  and  papers)     Shall  we  get  to  work? 

ghost.  Aye,  sit  thee  doon.  (She  seats  herself  at  the  left  of 
the  table  and  chooses  a  pen  from  the  standish)  An'  hark  ye! 
If  these  winds  continue  t'  blow,  thou'dst  best  bring  th' 
ewe  flock  off  th'  fells  into  th'  lowlands.     D'ye  hear? 

mrs.  jesmond.     I  hear,  my  dear. 


THE   WIDOW   OF   WASDALE   HEAD  2.5 

ghost  (taking  out  a  spectral  snuff-box  and  making  a  pretence 

of  snuffing).     Is  there  aught  amiss  this  week  here  or  at 

th'  farms? 
mrs.   jesmond.     Four  of  the  shorthorn  bullocks  at  Burn- 

thwaite  are  lame  from  kibe.    WThat  am  I  to  do  for  'em? 
ghost.     Kibe!     Why,  I  gave  thee  a  remedy  for  kibe  a  year 

since. 
mrs.  jesmond  (pouting).     I  know  you  did,  Hal;  but  I  failed 

to  note  it. 
ghost   (dusting  its  neckcloth  with  the  phantom  of  a  pocket- 
handkerchief).     I'm  sorely  af eared  you've  no  head,  Betty; 

thou'rt  but  a  heedless,  gay-hearted  wench.    What  ha'  you 

an'  th'  lads  been  doing  for  't? 
mrs.  jesmond.     Rubbing  tallow-fat  betwixt  the  claws  of  the 

poor  brutes. 
ghost.     Tallow-fat ! 
mrs.  jesmond.     Y-y-y-yes. 
ghost.     Zounds,  I  marvel  you  ha'n't  rubbed  in  some  o'  th' 

sweet  pomade  thou  hast  sent  thee  from  Lunnon  for  thy 

ringlets ! 
mrs.  jesmond  (sheepishly).     He,  he,  he,  he! 
ghost.     Ods-bobs,  you  may  well  grin !     'Twould  vastly  tickle 

me,  were  /  alive.     Come,  dip  thy  pen  in  th'  ink !  (Dictating) 

"Kibe."  ' 
mrs.  jesmond  (writing  in  a  book).     "Kibe " 


ghost.     "Anoint  wi'  blue  vitriol  an'  hog's  lard " 

mrs.  jesmond.     "Blue  vitriol " 

ghost.     Williams  at  St.  Bridget's  will  sell  thee  blue  vitriol. 

(She  goes  on  writing)     Mix  th'  stuff  half-an'-half,  an'  within 

a  fortnight  th'  beasts  will  be  sound-footed. 
mrs.  jesmond  (sanding  her  writing) .  Thank  you,  dear  Harry. 
ghost.     What's  thy  next  item,  Bet? 
mrs.  jesmond  (rummaging  among  her  papers).  The  next ? 

(Breaking  off  and  gazing  at  the  apparition  wistfully)  Hal 

ghost.     Hey? 

mrs.  jesmond  (in  a  voice  full  of  yearning).    Sit  in  thy  chair 

to-night,  yonder,  while  I  am  questioning  thee,  wilt  thou? 


26  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

ghost  (with  an  air  of  'patronage).  Certainly  I  will,  child,  if 
it  will  afford  thee  any  gratification.  (Seating  itself  in  the 
arm-chair).  'Tis  all  th'  same  t'  a  ghost  whether  he  be  sit- 
ting or  standing  or  lying. 

mrs.  jesmond.  Yes,  but  it  seems  more  domestic  to  see  thee 
ensconced  in  what  was  thy  accustomed  seat. 

ghost  (throwing  one  leg  over  the  other  and  sticking  its  thumbs 
in  the  armholes  of  its  waistcoat).  Which  posture  d'ye  most 
fancy,  Bet  —  this ? 

mrs.  jesmond  (nodding).  I  remember  thee  in  it  con- 
stantly. 

ghost  (extending  its  legs  and  resting  his  fists  on  its  hips).  Or 
this? 

mrs.  jesmond.  That  was  your  position  when  you  were  en- 
gaged in  argument.  I  had  rather  the  other.  (The  Ghost  re- 
sumes its  previous  attitude)  Oh!  Oh,  that  I  might  fill  thy 
pipe,  and  light  it  for  thee  at  the  candle,  and  slip  the  scarlet 
end  of  it  into  thy  poor  mouth,  as  I  used  to  do! 

ghost.  Nay,  lass,  that's  talking  sheer  nonsense.  (She 
presses  her  eyes  with  the  back  of  her  hand)  Come,  'tis  no 
good  whimpering;  whimpering  won't  mend  matters.  Get 
on  wi'  thy  work. 

mrs.  jesmond  (leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  beating  her 
clenched  hands  on  the  table).  Oh!  Oh,  how  cold  you  are! 
How  cold  you  are! 

ghost  (annoyed).  Cold!  'Pon  my  soul,  that's  monstrously 
inconsiderate  an'  unkind! 

mrs.  jesmond.     Ah,  have  I  hurt  thee? 

ghost.     Hurt  me! 

mrs.  jesmond.     I  ask  your  pardon,  Hal. 

ghost.  Nay,  'tis  all  very  fine!  (Rising)  Thou  know'st  'tis 
not  in  my  power  to  console  thee. 

mrs.  jesmond  (snatching  at  her  pen)  Ah,  you're  not  vanish- 
ing! You'll  not  vanish  so  soon!  Harry!  (The  Ghost  wags 
its  head  sulkily)     Harry!     Harry! 

ghost.  I'll  not  if  thou'lt  be  reasonable  an'  polite,  an'  I  can 
sarve  thee. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  27 

mrs.  jesmond.  I  will  be  reasonable;  I  will  be.  Oh,  'tis  as 
hard  on  you  as  on  me  that,  being  a  shade,  you  cannot  take 
me  to  your  breast;  and  'twas  cruel  of  me  to  complain!  I 
swear  I  won't  offend  again,  Hal. 

ghost  (loftily,  repeating  its  performance  with  the  snuff-boic). 
Proceed,  then. 

mrs.  jesmond.  Thank  you,  my  dear.  (Drying  her  eyes 
hurriedly  and  referring  to  a  paper)  Andrew  Todd  of  Mickle 
Gill  hath  begged  me  to  test  an  example  of  oats  that  he  hath 
brought  me.  The  germination  of  his  oat-seed  last  season 
greatly  discontented  him. 

ghost  (curling  its  lip).     Zooks,  but  Andrew  was  ever  a  fool! 

mrs.  jesmond  (humbly).  Nay,  I  am  worse;  for  I  am  even 
more  ignorant  than  Andrew  how  to  make  the  test. 

ghost.  I'll  tell  'ee.  Tear  two  strips  from  thine  old  flannel- 
petticoat  an'  lay  th'  seed  between  'em  an'  float  'em  in  a 
crock  full  o'  water.  (She  again  writes  in  her  book)  Stand  th' 
vessel  in  thy  sunniest  window,  an'  in  less  than  three  days 
thou'lt  be  able  to  show  Todd  how  many  of  his  oats  are 
speared.  (With  a  hollow,  vain  laugh)  Ha,  ha,  Maister 
Todd! 

mrs.  jesmond  (throwing  down  her  pen  suddenly  and  leaning 
her  head  upon  her  hands).     Oh,  Hal,  Hal! 

ghost.     Why,  what's  wrong  wi'  thee  now? 

mrs.  jesmond.     Alas,  and  alas,  I  am  but  an  impostor! 

ghost.     Impostor? 

mrs.  jesmond  (starting  up  and  walking  about).  A  cheat!  I 
despise  myself  for  fobbing  off  these  dalesmen  with  the 
belief  that  'tis  I  that  helps  them  in  their  difficulties. 

ghost.     Why,  'tis  you  that  do  it,  Betty,  in  sober  truth. 

mrs.  jesmond  (reprovingly).     Harry! 

ghost.  I  say  'tis  so.  An'  were  I  alive,  I  should  be  con- 
sumedly  proud  of  you,  Bet;  I  should,  b'  George,  though  I 
do  upbraid  thee  on  occasions  when  thou  dost  desarve  it. 

mrs.  jesmond.  Thou  wert  never  logical,  Harry!  Were  you 
alive,  'twould  be  known  that  the  cleverness  is  all  thine. 
(Leaning  upon  the  dresser)     Oh,  'twould  relieve  my  con- 


28  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

science  of  a  heavy  burden,  could  I  but  reveal  that  you  visit 
me  in  this  manner! 

ghost.  An'  scare  th'  folks  for  miles  round!  Th'  inn  an'  th' 
farms  'ud  be  shunned,  an'  thou'd  be  reduced  to  beggary. 

mrs.  jesmond  {dejectedly).     Oh!     Oh! 

ghost.  Nay,  you  need  ha'  no  qualms  on  that  score,  lass. 
'Tis  lucky,  I  confess,  that  I  had  a  bent  for  farming  as  well 
as  for  dicing  an'  cock-fighting;  but  husband  an'  wife  are 
one,  an'  so,  I  take  it,  are  a  widow  an'  her  husband's  ghost, 
till  she  falls  in  love  wi'  another  chap.  {Drawing  itself  up) 
There's  logic  for  thee!  {The  wind  is  heard  again,  and  a 
whistle  from  the  sign-board.  The  Ghost's  expression  changes) 
'Egad,  but  that  reminds  me,  Bet ! 

mrs.  jesmond.     Of  what,  Hal? 

ghost  {scowling).  Speaking  o'  falling  in  love,  th'  young 
gentleman  that  quartered  himself  here  two  months  ago  is 
still  under  thy  roof.  {Her  body  slowly  stiffens)  Thou  didst 
mention  his  name  an'  quality  to  me  once 

mrs.  jesmond  {turning  to  the  Ghost,  but  avoiding  its  eyes). 
Mr.  Edward  Fane?  He  resides  with  his  mother,  who  is 
wealthy,  at  Kensington  in  London. 

ghost  {with  a  sneer).  That's  him;  a  handsome,  black  young 
man,  in  's  own  hair. 

mrs.  jesmond  {advancing  frigidly).  Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Fane 
wears  neither  wig  nor  powder;  but,  for  the  rest,  I  have 
scarce  observed  his  looks. 

ghost.  'Faith,  he  hath  obsarved  thine!  I've  seen  him 
through  th'  shutters,  as  I've  rid  past  thy  window  on  my 
grey  mare,  an'  he  hath  been  sitting  opposite  thee  at  table 
an'  gazing  at  thee  most  fixedly. 

mrs.  jesmond  {shrugging  her  shoulders).  'Tis  when  Mr. 
Fane  and  I  have  been  playing  a  game  of  backgammon 
together  that  you  must  have  remarked  us. 

ghost.  Eh,  so  you  play  backgammon  wi'  him,  do  'ee,  Betty? 

mrs.  jesmond.  To  while  away  his  evenings.  {Fingering  the 
back  of  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round  table)  Wasdale  hath 
few  attractions  for  a  man  of  fashion;  and  this  one  is  so 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  29 

excellent  a  customer  that  'tis  worth  taking  some  pains  to 
divert  him. 

ghost.  Nay,  I  wager  he  finds  no  lack  of  divarsion  at  Was- 
dale,  or  he'd  not  linger  as  he  does.  (Lowering  at  her)  He's 
sweet  on  thee,  lass,  to  a  certainty. 

mrs.  jesmond  (indignantly).     Hal! 

ghost.  Aye,  an'  I  warn  thee,  thou'lt  be  losing  thy  heart  to 
him,  if  thou'rt  not  careful. 

mrs.  jesmond.     Harry! 

ghost  (bitterly).  An'  then  I  shall  hear  th'  blast  o'  th'  horn 
no  more  o'  Friday  nights,  in  spite  of  all  thy  oaths  an' 
tears  an'  protestations;  an'  thou'lt  cast  me  aside,  an'  out 
o'  thy  thoughts,  like  thy  worn  padesoy! 

mrs.  jesmond.  Oh!  Oh!  As  if  I  could  ever  be  inconstant 
to  thee,  my  first  and  last  love!  Shame  on  you,  poor  grisly 
thing  that  thou  art,  for  thinking  it  of  me! 

ghost.     Dang  it,  there  you  go  again!     Grisly! 

mrs.  jesmond  (moving  about  the  room,  in  a  heat).  Oh!  Oh! 
I'll  play  no  more  backgammon  with  Mr.  Fane  from  this 
time  forth,  I  do  assure  you,  nor  with  any  other  living 
man !     Oh ! 

ghost.  'Twas  not  backgammon  you  were  playing  when  I 
last  espied  you  both,  Betty.  Mr.  Fane  had  a  paper  in 
's  hand  an'  appeared  to  be  reciting  to  thee. 

mrs.  jesmond  (halting).  Ah,  yes;  he  hath  a  taste  for  writing 
poetry,  and  was  reading  one  of  his  compositions.  (Re- 
turning to  the  table,  eagerly)  That  is  the  reason  Mr.  Fane 
lingers  at  Wasdale,  Harry;  the  grandeur  of  the  district 
elevates  his  mind,  he  declares.  Immediately  he  reined  up 
at  this  door,  two  months  back,  and  I  went  out  to  greet  him, 
he  looked  at  me  and  said,  "Why,  madam,  this  is  the  very 
spot  I  have  been  searching  for  in  my  dreams!" 

ghost  (giving  another  hollow  laugh).     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

mrs.  jesmond  (reproachfully).  Oh,  Hal,  thou  wert  never 
bookish;  you  never  knew  aught  of  poets  and  their  ways! 

ghost.  Not  I.  An'  what's  his  poetry  like,  lass?  I  warrant 
'tis  all  "love"  an'  "dove  ",  an'  that  sort  o'  muck. 


30  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

mrs.    jesmond.     Nay,    'tis   somewhat   better   than   muck; 

though  of  no  great  merit  perhaps. 

ghost.   The  piece  he  was  reading  when  I  watched  thee ? 

mrs.  jesmond.      'Twas  called  —  how  was  it  styled?  —  "To 

Aminta " 

ghost.     Aminta? 

mrs.  jesmond.     "Aminta"  is  a  fanciful  conceit;  she  is  no 

real  person.   'Tis  modish  in  a  poet  to  inscribe  his  rhymes  to 

Julia,  or  Chloe,  or  —  or  Aminta.   Pshaw !    Thou  shalt  judge 

how  harmless  the  verses  are.    (Disdainfully)    "To  Aminta, 

a  Lady  Dwelling  in  the  Country." 
ghost  (suspiciously).     A  lady  dwelling  i'  th'  country? 
mrs.  jesmond  (reciting,  at  first  with  a  show  of  indifference, 

then  with  genuine  fervour). 

Belov'd  Aminta,  shall  thy  lone  retreat 
Hold  thee  for  ever  in  his  close  embrace, 
Whilst  the  vast  waters  stretching  at  thy  feet 
Capture  the  sole  reflection  of  thy  face? 
Nay,  let  the  lordly  hill,  the  softer  glen, 
In  Nature's  sempiternal  gifts  secure, 
Suffer  thy  charms  t'  illume  the  haunts  of  Men, 
Purge  the  vile  Town  and  make  the  City  pure! 

[She  stands  absorbed,  looking  into  space.  After  a  short  silence, 

the  sign-board  creaks  again  gently. 
ghost.     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  (She  starts)  Why,  thou  hast  learned 

every  syllable  of  it ! 
mrs.  jesmond  (guiltily).  Oh,  'tis  but  simple  stuff,  and  readily 

committed  to  memory. 
ghost.     A  lady  dwelling  i'  th'  country!    'Tis  thee,  o'  course! 
Mrs.  jesmond.     La,  there  are  hundreds  of  ladies  that  dwell 

in  solitude  in  the  country,  Hal! 
ghost.     "Whilst  the  vast  waters  stretching  at  thy  feet — "! 

'Tis  our  lake  o'  Wastwater! 
mrs.  jesmond  (resuming  her  seat  at  the  table  and  handling  her 

papers  in  a  flutter).     Nay,  I  am  weary  of  talking  about 

this  Mr.  Fane 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  31 


ghost.     An'  he'd  bear  thee  off  t'  Lunnon,  would  he,  t'  th' 

haunts  o'  men,  th' ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (picking  up  a  paper  hastily).  I've  a  question 
to  ask  thee  concerning  the  crooked  field  below  Buck- 
barrow  

ghost.     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

mrs.  jesmond.     Harry !    (There  is  a  sharp  knocking  at 

the  upper  door,  followed  by  the  click  of  the  latch)  Ah !  (Again 
the  wind  thunders,  and  again  the  candle-flames  flicker  and 
the  room  is  momentarily  in  semi-darkness.  Then  the  room 
brightens  and  Edward  is  seen  upon  the  landing.  The  Ghost 
has  disappeared)     Who's  there? 

[Edward  shuts  the  door  at  which  he  has  entered  and,  staring 
about  him  wildly,  rapidly  descends  the  stairs.     The  wind 
moderates. 
edward.     Tis  I.     (Running  his  eyes  round  the  room)     For- 
give me,  madam. 
mrs.  jesmond   (composedly,   as  though  engrossed  in  work). 
Indeed,   sir,   you   might   have   waited    till    I    bade  you 
come  in. 
edward    (bewildered).      M-m-may    I    have    a    word    with 

you? 
mrs.  jesmond.     If  you  will  remember  that  I  am  at  my 
books  and  papers,  and  that  even  an  innkeeper  is  not  always 
at  the  beck-and-call  of  a  guest. 
edward  (bowing).     Nay,  ma'am,  I  have  apologized  for  my 
fault.     (Looking  keenly  in  the  direction  of  the  lower  door  and 
the  space  under  the  staircase)     The   fact  is  that,  hearing 
voices,  I  had  less  compunction  in  breaking  in  upon  you 
than  I  should  otherwise  have  had. 
mrs.  jesmond  (with  assumed  surprise).     Voices? 
edward.     The  sounds  of  talking  and  laughing. 
mrs.  jesmond.     Why,  Mr.  Fane,  'tis  not  improbable  that  I 

chatter  to  myself  while  I  am  calculating  my  figures. 
edward.     And  laugh! 

mrs.  jesmond.     And  laugh.     (Rising  and  moving  to  the  fire- 
place)    The  farmer  —  man  or  woman  —  that  attempts  to 


32  THE   WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

cultivate  this  grudging  valley  may  well  laugh,  sir,  though 
the  laugh  be  on  the  wrong  side  o'  the  mouth.1 

edward.     Oh,  but  this  is  evasion !   Mrs.  Jesmond ! 

mrs.  jesmond.     Evasion! 

edward.     Is  there  anybody  concealed  here? 

mrs.  jesmond.     Concealed? 

edward  (peering  into  the  space  beneath  the  staircase  and  then 
returning  and  confronting  her).  Nay,  then,  he  must  have 
left  the  room  as  I  entered  it,  and  by  this  door ! 

mrs.  jesmond.     Mr.  Fane! 

edward  (going  to  her).  I  swear  I  heard  more  than  one 
voice,  and  that  a  man's!  By  Heaven,  you  are  deceiving 
me! 

mrs.  jesmond.  Deceiving  you ,  sir !  (Haughtily)  Why,  what 
am  I  to  you,  or  you  to  me,  that  I  should  deceive  you,  or 
enlighten  you,  on  any  affair  that  doth  not  concern  your 
abode  at  this  inn?  So  that  your  bed  is  clean,  and  your 
food  wholesome,  and  my  charges  are  just  and  fairly  reck- 
oned, and  you  acquit  them  promptly,  what  obligations, 
pray,  are  we  under  to  each  other?  (Stamping  her  foot) 
Withdraw  from  my  room,  Mr.  Fane,  and  suffer  me  to  re- 
sume my  work !  Stand  aside,  sir !  (He  allows  her  to  pass  him 
but,  as  she  does  so,  he  catches  her  by  the  arms)    Unhand  me! 

edward  (passionately) .     Mrs.  Jesmond ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (releasing  herself  and  facing  him).  Oh,  'tis 
cowardly  of  you;  and  when  my  servants  are  abed,  and  I 
am  unprotected !  (He  retreats  a  step  or  two)  Oh !  You  that 
have  writ  such  tender  poems,  and  delivered  them  with  so 
much  sensibility! 

edward  (with  dignity).  Nay,  madam,  you  misinterpret  my 
action.  Believe  me  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  my 
violence.  (Drawing  himself  erect)  And  yet  you  are  right; 
I  am  a  coward,  and  an  arrant  one. 

mrs.  jesmond.     Mr.  Fane! 

1  Her  farm  at  Burnthwaite  seems  to  have  been  decidedly  unprosperous, 
for  to-day  not  a  trace  of  cultivation  exists  between  Wasdale  Head  and  the 
Buttermere  valley. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  33 

edward.     A  coward.     What  else  am  I  when  I  have  hesitated 

so  long  to  free  myself  from  the  malign  spell  your  beauty 

hath  cast  upon  me ! 

_  i 


MRS.  jesmond  (faintly).     Malign  — 

edward.  When,  suspecting  you  to  be  false  and  unworthy  — 
as  I  have  for  many  weeks  past,  and  as  I  have  to-night 
proved  you  to  be  —  I  have  foolishly  persuaded  myself, 
against  my  innermost  convictions,  of  your  probity  and 
virtue ! 

mrs.  jesmond.  False  and  unworthy!  You  are  mad,  sir! 
False  to  whom? 

edward.     To  me. 

mrs.  jesmond.    To  —  to  you! 

edward.  Why,  madam,  you  know  that  I  have  loved  you  — 
(she  puts  her  hand  to  her  heart  with  a  quick  motion)  do  love 
you! 

mrs.  jesmond  (tremblingly).  Indeed,  and  indeed,  Mr. 
Fane ! 

edward  (sternly).  Hush!  To  deny  it  is  a  lie!  (She  makes 
a  movement,  as  if  to  escape,  and  again  he  detains  her)  Stay ! 
You  shall  hear  me!  (She  sinks  into  the  chair  at  the  right  of 
the  round  table)  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment 
I  saw  you,  when,  on  that  evil  day  on  which  accident 
brought  me  to  this  inn,  and  I  checked  my  bridle  at  the 
porch,  you  stood  with  your  hand  resting  on  my  horse's 
shoulder  and  your  eyes  drooped  before  mine.  I  have 
loved  you  from  that  moment,  I  repeat;  (accusingly)  while 
you,  with  the  quick  instinct  that  wakes  intelligence  in  a 
woman's  brain,  if  not  response  within  her  bosom,  have 
divined  my  feelings  and  cruelly  allowed  me  to  foster  them ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (weakly).  I  have  oft  been  struck  with  the 
idea  that  you  are  exceeding  well-disposed  towards  me 

edward.     Well-disposed!     Ah,  do  not  prevaricate! 

mrs.  jesmond.  But  you  have  never  spoke  a  word  of  love  to 
me,  I  do  protest. 

edward.  Not  expressly;  for  'twas  on  the  night  previous  to 
the  day  on  which  I  had  intended  to  throw  myself  at  your 


34  THE   WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

feet  that,  returning  from  my  bedchamber  to  fetch  a  letter, 
I  was  startled  by  mysterious  murmurs  issuing  from  this 
room. 

mrs.  jesmond  (raising  her  head).     Ah! 

edward.  Since  then  (pointing  to  the  door  on  the  landing)  I 
have  listened  there  every  Friday  night 

mrs.  jesmond.     Listened! 

edward  (abashed).  I  confess  it  —  listened  with  my  hand 
upon  the  latch,  lacking  the  courage  to  enter  and  perhaps 
confirm  the  dreadful  doubts  that  assailed  me. 

mrs.  jesmond  (scornfully).  You  do  yourself  scant  justice, 
Mr.  Fane.  You  are  full  of  courage  to-night,  sir,  at  any  rate ! 

edward.  Because  I  have  to-night  heard  what  I  have  not 
hitherto  clearly  detected  —  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice;  and 
have  convinced  myself  that,  aided  by  a  specious  but  ill- 
contrived  stratagem,  you  are  receiving  a  visitor  clandes- 
tinely. (She  rises,  standing  before  him  with  her  head  averted. 
The  wind  swells  again)  Mrs.  Jesmond,  I  set  out  for  London 
to-morrow,  carrying  with  me  recollections  that  will  remain 
with  me  till  death  —  recollections  of  the  hours  we  have 
spent  together  in  this  apartment;  hours  of  bliss,  before  I 
mistrusted  thee,  and  afterwards  when  your  charms  have 
lulled  me  into  the  belief  that  the  possessor  of  so  fair  an 
exterior  must  be  the  most  innocent,  as  you  are  assuredly 
the  most  captivating,  of  your  sex;  hours  of  anguish,  when 
doubt  hath  gained  supremacy  and  I  have  endured  the 
torments  of  the  damned.  Farewell!  Did  I  desire  retalia- 
tion, 'twould  be  in  the  thought  that  at  some  future  time 
you  will  reproach  yourself  for  having  shaken  beyond  repair 
the  faith  of  one  who  would  have  crowned  you  with  his 
honour  and  esteem,  adored  you  with  his  body,  defended 
you  with  his  sword,  and  given  you  a  heart  to  lean  upon  that 
hath  been  touched  by  no  other  woman.1  (Bowing  low) 
Madam ! 

mrs.  jesmond  (with  a  deep  curtsey).    Farewell,  sir.    (He  goes 

1  Compare  Mr.  George  Napier's  declaration  to  Lady  Sarah  in  the  "Life 
and  Letters  of  Lady  Sarah  Lennox." 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  35 

towards  the  staircase.    Suddenly,  with  a  gasp,  she  runs  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  and  intercepts  him)  Ah,  no!  Mr.  Fane ! 

edward  (drawing  back).     Mrs.  Jesmond! 

mrs.  jesmond.  Mr.  Fane,  I  cannot  bear  that  we  should  part 
thus.  Edward!  "Tis  true;  I  am  false  and  unworthy,  as 
you  have  accused  me  of  being.  But  'tis  my  —  my  secret 
visitor  that  I  am  false  to,  and  not  to  thee.  (Coming  closer 
to  him)     Edward ! 

edward  (repelling  her  with  a  gesture).     Ah ! 

mrs.  jesmond.  Nay,  don't  put  me  from  thee,  for  this  once. 
(Simply)  Edward,  I  have  known  of  thy  love  for  me;  I  have 
known  it  from  the  beginning.  And,  oh  —  Heaven  pardon 
me,  my  dear  —  (laying  her  head  against  him)  —  I  have  loved 
that  thou  shouldst  love  me! 

edward  (after  a  struggle).     Betty ! 

[lie  folds  her  in  his  arms.    The  wind  roars  and  the  sign-board 
screeches. 

mrs.  jesmond  (feebly) .  And  now  —  enough.  (Looking  up  at 
him)  Only  I  beg  thee  to  glance  up  at  my  window  as 
you  ride  away  tomorrow.  Thou  wilt  do  that  for  me, 
Edward? 

edward  (in  sudden  fury) .     Oh ! 

[He  catches  up  the  riding-cloak  from  the  table  in  the  bay  of 
the  window,  flings  it  aside,  and  seizes  one  of  the  pistols. 

MRS.  JESMOND.       Pistols! 

edward  (examining  the  lock  of  the  pistol) .  They  are  Sir  John 
Hunslet's.  (Grimly)  He  left  them  lying  here,  lest  I 
should  encounter  the  wretch  that  hath  obtained  such  a  per- 
nicious influence  over  thee. 

mrs.  jesmond  (laughing  ivildly).     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

edward  (grasping  the  pistol  tightly).  The  villain  —  he  that 
visits  thee  —  where  is  he  hid? 

mrs.  jesmond.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  Thy  bullet  cannot  harm 
him.   'Twould  but  whistle  through  him  and  strike  the  wall. 

edward  (gripping  her  wrist).  Collect  thyself;  thou  art  out 
of  thy  senses! 

mrs.  jesmond  (desperately).  Am  I!  Thou  shalt  see!    (Point- 


36  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

ing  to  the  hunting-horn)  Unhook  that  horn  from  its  nail 
and  bring  it  to  me. 

edward.     The  signal! 

mrs.  jesmond.  What,  hast  thou  heard  that  also !  (Hurriedly 
he  takes  down  the  hunting-horn  and  hands  it  to  her.  Again  she 
blows  upon  it,  and  again  the  wind  gives  a  mighty  bellow,  the 
candles  flicker,  and  the  bluish  light  suffuses  the  rooms)  Look ! 
[Following  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  he  turns  and  finds  the 
Ghost  at  his  elbow. 

edward  (under  his  breath).  Merciful  Powers!  (The  pistol 
drops  from  his  relaxed  fingers  and  rattles  on  the  stones  of  the 
floor.  Slowly,  with  measured  tread  and  with  its  head  bent,  the 
Ghost  walks  to  the  fireplace  and  stands  there,  gazing  into  the 
fire.  The  force  of  the  wind  decreases)  A  ghost!  A  ghost! 
A  ghost! 

mrs.  jesmond  (placing  the  horn  upon  the  round  table  and  ad- 
dressing Edward  in  a  hushed,  steady  voice).  'Tis  my  hus- 
band's spirit,  Mr.  Fane.  My  grief  called  it  to  me  in  the 
young  days  of  my  bereavement,  and  it  hath  visited  me 
since  every  week,  and  guided  me  in  the  conduct  of  my  land 
and  property;  (with  a  slight  shiver)  and  'tis  my  resolve  to 
remain  as  constant  to  this  shadow  as  though  'twere  blood 
and  bone.  (Moving  a  little  towards  Edward)  You  have  been 
pleased  to  take  a  kindly  interest  in  me,  sir;  and  you  will  be 
glad,  I  am  sure,  when  you  quit  Wasdale,  to  reflect  that  the 
poor  widow  that  hath  done  her  best  for  your  comfort  and 
entertainment  is  not  entirely  alone.  (Curtseying  again) 
Good-night.  (Speechless,  Edward  backs  away  from  her  and 
goes  out  at  the  door  under  the  landing.  She  sees  that  the  door 
is  closed  and  then  advances  timorously.  The  Ghost  does  not 
stir)  Er  —  I  hope  thou'rt  not  angry,  Hal.  'Twas  Mr.  Fane 
that  interrupted  us.  He  returned  to  this  room  for  some 
purpose,  and  our  talk  and  laughter  reached  him  as  he  was 
opening  the  door.  'Twas  indiscreet  in  us  to  speak  so  loud. 
(Coming  to  the  round  table)  But,  la,  'tis  no  matter;  he  is  a 
person  to  be  trusted!  (Lightly,  toying  with  her  books  and 
papers)    Beside  —  ha,  ha !  —  it  hath  afforded  me  the  oppor- 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  37 

tunity  of  hinting  to  my  gentleman  that,  should  he  ever  re- 
visit Wasdale  Head,  'twould  be  useless  for  him  to  pursue 
thy  Betty  with  his  attentions,  were  he  so  minded.  (Seating 
herself  at  the  table  again)  He  doth  depart  to-morrow,  I 
thank  the  Lord!  (Sorting  her  litter)  What  was  it  I  was 
about  to  ask  thee?  (Picking  up  a  paper)  Ah,  yes;  the 
crooked  field  by  Buckbarrow  — !  ( The  Ghost  slowly  turns 
and  faces  her  and  she  stares  at  it  agape.  Its  form  and  features 
have  become  less  distinct)  Why  —  how  —  how  dim  you  are, 
Harry ! 
ghost  (harshly,  but  in  fainter  tones  than  before).  Dim!  'Egad, 
I  should  think  so!  Thou  know'st  that  I  owe  this  ghostly 
existence  o'  mine  only  to  thy  love  for  me. 

MRS.  JESMOND.      W-W-Well? 

ghost.  Well!  Ha,  ha!  I  marvel,  after  witnessing  what  hath 
passed  'twixt  you  and  Mr.  Fane,  that  thou  canst  discern 
me  at  all,  Betty. 

mrs.  jesmond  (aghast).     Witnessing ! 

ghost.   Aye.   Did  'ee  imagine  I  was  out  of  eye-an'-ear-shot? 

mrs.  jesmond.     Y-y-y-yes. 

ghost.  Not  I.  I've  been  wi'  thee  th'  whole  while.  Ho,  ho, 
ho,  ho!  (There  is  a  pause,  and  then  Mrs.  Jesmond,  pressing 
her  temples,  falls  back  in  her  chair  with  a  groan)  Nay,  less, 
'tis  I  that  should  be  making  a  fuss;  an',  b'  George,  I  would 
too,  but  that  thou  hast  diminished  me  to  that  degree  that 
I'm  scarce  capable  of  it! 

mrs.  jesmond  (raising  herself).  Oh!  Oh!  (Dropping  her  out- 
stretched arms  upon  the  table  and  laying  her  head  upon  them) 
Oh-h-h-h! 

[The  wind  gives  a  sigh  and  the  sign-board  creaks  sympa- 
thetically. 

ghost  (wagging  its  head  shakily).  Ah,  Bet,  Bet,  I  own  I've 
never  suspected  you  would  sell  me  i'  this  fashion.  (With 
a  low  cry,  she  rises  and  throws  herself  at  the  Ghost's  feet) 
That  thou  shouldst  prove  such  a  smooth-tongued,  double- 
faced  hypocrite!  Dang  it,  that  beats  me,  that  had  such  a 
vast  knowledge  o'  women! 


THE   WIDOW   OF   WASDALE   HEAD 

MRS.  jesmoxd.     Oh.  hush,  hush!     Were  I  a  hypocrite,  and 

merely  feigning  love  for  thee,  there  would  be  nothing  of 

thee  visible.  Harry;  not  a  vestige.      Piteously)     Ah.  I've 

told  thee  already   to-night,   logic  was  never  thy   strong 

int! 

ghost  -  -  "  .  Zounds.  I  suppose  *iia  possible  for  a 
woman  to  love  a  live  man  an*  yet  ha'  a  softish  feeling  for 
a  dead  one ! 

mrs.  jesmoxd      "  eeprng).     Oh!   Oh! 

ST.     But    'tis  plain.   Betty,   that   thy  love  for  Fane  is 
most 

mrs.  jesmoxd.     Oh!   Oh! 

ghost.  An'  so.  to  preserve  a  morsel  o'  dignity,  'twould  be 
prudent  o'  me  to  bid  thee  good-bye  before  I  fade  from  thee 
completely. 

mrs.  jesmoxd.  No,  no.  Hal!  Listen!  [Sitting  up  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  supplier  Oh.  listen!  The  wind  sighs 
again  and  the  -  •  Hal  —  Hal.  when  the  grave 
closed  over  thee.  I  did  indeed  believe  that  I  was  done  with 
love  for  ever,  and  that  my  heart  was  but  a  dry  and  withered 
plant:  but.  oh.  there  are  so  sons  when  it  will  persist  in  put- 
ting forth  green  shoots,  and  when  I  find  strange  hopes  and 
ys  quickening  within  me  that  are  unbefitting  a  woman 
that  is  devoted  to  the  memory  of  her  dead  husband!  Alas, 
Harry,  'twas  at  such  a  time  that  Mr.  Fane  came  upon  me! 
Though  'twas  in  January  that  he  alighted  at  my  door,  the 
sun  was  shining  in  the  valley,  and  our  robins  were  chirping, 
and  there  was  a  tremble  of  Spring  in  the  air:  and  'twas  then. 
when  he  had  crossed  my  t.  Id  and  I  filled  him  a  cup  of 
wine,  and  faced  him  while  he  drank  —  'twas  then  that  I 
felt  those  green  shoots  in  my  breast  burst  and  spread  their 
leaves.  Wildly'  But,  oh.  my  dear,  he  is  goinj.  as  you  are 
informed  —  he  is  going!  —  and  'tis  not  likely  that  he  will 
come  my  way  again,  nor  that  another  young  man  of  his 
rank  and  character  will  ever  resort  to  this  lonely  inn.  And 
so  you  must  pardon  me  this  one  stumble:  and  by  all  that 
I  hold  most  sacred.  Hal ! 


THE   WIDOW   OF  WASDALE  HEAD  39 

ghost  (mournfully).  Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  make  no  more 
promises.     Thou  hast  perjured  thyself  enough  as  it  is. 

mrs.  JESMOND.  Perjured  myself!  Ah,  yes!  (Laying  her  head 
in  abasement  upon  the  chair  at  the  right  of  the  round  table) 
Oh,  Hal,  Hal,  Hal ! 

ghost.  Ah,  I  perceive  now  —  an'  so  dost  thou,  Bet  —  'tis  a 
sad  mistake  for  a  widow  in  th'  first  flood  of  her  grief  to 
call  her  husband  back  from  his  tomb.  What  we  do  in  heat 
we  repent  in  cold.  An'  if  'tis  so  wi'  widows  in  general,  'tis 
especially  so  wi'  thee,  that  are  still  but  a  girl.  (She  sobs) 
Zooks,  'tis  my  fault  for  having  answered  thy  cry !  I  should 
ha'  had  more  brains;  an'  would  ha'  had,  but  that  I  lost 
some  in  my  accident.  (She  sobs  again)  So,  come,  dry  thine 
eyes.  I  tell  'ee  I  don't  blame  thee,  nor  bear  thee  malice; 
no,  nor  him.  (Attempting,  with  small  success,  to  repeat  his 
pretence  of  snuffing)  'Tis  th'  way  o'  th'  world.  Ods-bobs, 
who  is  missed  in't!  (Philosophically,  flourishing  his  phan- 
tom pocket-handkerchief)  Why,  I  recollect  losing  my  dog 
Pincher  when  I  was  a  bachelor,  that  died  o'  jaundice.  How 
I  raved  about  'un,  an'  stamped  up  an'  down  th'  stable 
where  he  lay  stiff!  But  a  week  or  two  later  I  was  buying 
a  couple  o'  pups  at  Gosforth  fair,  an'  was  in  love  wi'  them, 
an'  forgot  Pincher;  an'  th'  following  week  I  met  thee,  and 
fell  in  love  wi'  thee,  an'  forgot  th'  pups.  (Producing  its 
gloves  and  speaking  in  the  tone  of  a  person  preparing  to  de- 
part)    Well,  lass ! 

mrs.  jesmoxd.  Ah!  (Turning  swiftly,  icith  a  hoarse  scream) 
Ah-h-h-h! 

ghost  (draicing  on  a  glove).  Perhaps  'tis  all  for  th'  best, 
though  't  has  been  a  sore  blow  to  my  pride.  (Hopefully) 
'Egad,  as  I  shall  ride  out  no  more,  maybe  'twill  settle  th' 
question  o'  my  future,  one  way  or  tother ! 

mrs.  jesmoxd  (frantically).     Harry!   Harry ! 

ghost.     Th'  grey  mare  too !  She  did  but  blunder  once  in  her 
life;  'tis  rough  on  her,  poor  slut,  to  have  had  her  rest  broke 
for  a  single  slip. 
[The  wind  roars  again  furiously,  and  the  room  darkens  as 


40  THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD 

the  Ghost  glides  towards  the  window.  Struggling  to  her 
feet,  Mrs.  Jesmond  staggers  after  the  Ghost  and  tries  to 
clutch  it. 

mrs.  jesmond.  Harry !  No,  no !  Hal !  Ah,  I  can't  hold  thee ! 
I  can't  hold  thee!   Oh! 

ghost  (softly).    Coom,  mare,  coom!   Coom,  coom,  coom! 

mrs.  jesmond.  Wait!  Wait  — !  (The  Ghost  vanishes)  Ah- 
h-h-h!  Comeback!  Harry!  My  husband!  (She  rushes,  still 
crying  out,  to  the  stairs  and  gropes  for  the  hunting-horn;  then, 
remembering  that  it  is  upon  the  round  table,  she  flies  to  the  table 
and  seizes  it)  Ah !  Harry!  Harry!  I  love  thee!  I  swear  I  love 
thee!  (She  blows  the  horn  and  instantly  the  shutters  disappear 
and  the  Ghost  is  seen  upon  the  grey  mare,  the  wild  country 
beyond.  Again  the  tvind  bellows)  Oh!  Wait!  Ah-h-h-h! 
(Holding  the  reins  in  its  left  hand,  the  Ghost  waves  its  right 
hand  in  adieu;  and  then,  with  a  hollow  whoop,  it  claps  its 
spurs  to  the  mare's  sides,  and  horse  and  rider  plunge  into  the 
murk.  The  shutters  reappear  and  the  room  is  bright  once  more) 
Oh,  no!  Thou'rt  not  gone!  Thou'rt  not  gone!  Harry! 
(She  puts  the  horn  to  her  mouth  again  and  blows  a  loud  blast. 
Then  she  runs  about  the  room,  searching  and  calling)  Harry ! 
Harry!  I  want  thee!  Where  are  you?  (Looking  into  the 
space  under  the  staircase)  Are  you  there,  Hal?  (In  the  bay 
of  the  window)  Hal,  I've  something  to  ask  thee!  'Tis  im- 
portant! (At  the  fireplace)  Harry!  Oh,  Harry  — !  (Sud- 
denly, throwing  the  horn  from  her)  Ah-h-h-h!  He's  gone! 
He's  gone! 

[The  door  on  the  landing  opens  and  Edward  and  Sir  John 
Hunslet  appear. 

edward.     Mrs.  Jesmond ! 

mrs.  jesmond.    He's  gone!    (To  Edward)    You  have  driven 
him  away !    I  hate  you !   I  — !   Harry  — ! 
[She  topples  to  the  ground.    Edward  and  Sir  John  descend 
the  stairs  rapidly  and  Edward,  kneeling  beside  Mrs.  Jesmond, 
lifts  her  into  his  arms.     The  wind  lessens. 

edward.  Mrs.  Jesmond!  Betty!  Betty!  (To  Sir  John,  in 
alarm)     Oh,  Jack ! 


THE  WIDOW  OF  WASDALE  HEAD  41 

[Sir  John  takes  the  candlestick  from  the  round  table  and  bends 
over  Mrs.  Jesmond. 
sir  john  (quietly) .     Tis  only  a  swoon.    {Carrying  the  candle- 
stick, he  moves  to  the  lower  door^    I'll  go  and  rouse  one  of 
her  women.  [The  sign-board  creaks. 

THE  END 


THE  GOAL 

HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

The  work  of  Henry  Arthur  Jones  is  doubly  significant. 
In  the  first  place,  it  marks  the  return  of  the  best  English  dra- 
matic traditions  to  the  modern  stage,  for  in  spite  of  the  inno- 
vations preached  by  Mr.  Jones  so  assiduously  for  over  thirty 
years,  he  remains  in  his  best  work  a  dramatist  of  the  classical 
school.  "The  Liars",  "The  Case  of  Rebellious  Susan",  and 
"Dolly  Reforming  Herself",  are  genuine  comedies,  indige- 
nously English,  of  the  line  of  Sheridan  and  Goldsmith. 

Henry  Arthur  Jones  was  born  at  Grandborough,  Bucks, 
in  1851.  His  early  education  was  received  in  his  native 
district.  He  entered  business  at  Bradford  and  was  for 
some  years  a  commercial  traveler.  Before  reaching  the  age 
of  thirty,  however,  he  wrote  his  first  play,  "Only  'Round  the 
Corner",  which  was  produced  at  Exeter  in  1878.  During  the 
succeeding  four  years  he  wrote  a  number  of  relatively  un- 
important plays.  In  1882  he  achieved  his  first  and,  in  some 
respects,  his  most  brilliant  success,  with  a  melodrama,  "The 
Silver  King",  written  in  collaboration  with  Henry  Herman. 
This  celebrated  play  has  seen  the  footlights  in  many  countries 
and  is  still  occasionally  revived.  "Saints  and  Sinners" 
(1884)  is  Mr.  Jones'  first  significant  play;  it  was  a  landmark 
in  modern  English  drama,  a  work  in  which  subject- 
matter  and  treatment  were  primarily  English,  and  not*— 
as  was  usual  at  the  time  —  of  French  origin. 

Aside  from  his  seventy  plays,  Henry  Arthur  Jones  has 
contributed  a  considerable  mass  of  theory  and  propagandist 
literature  on  the  modern  drama,  setting  high  standards  in 


44 


THE   GOAL 


dramatic  art  both  for  the  dramatist  and  the  public.  To 
him  is  due  a  great  part  of  that  impetus  which  has  resulted 
in  what  he  himself  calls  the  Renascence  of  the  English  drama. 
Mr.  Jones  has  written  few  one-act  plays,  but  excepting 
"The  Goal"  and  "The  Knife",  his  short  plays  are  not  of  the 
first  importance.  "The  Goal",  however,  is  an  outstanding 
example  of  his  skill  in  extracting  from  a  situation  the  last 
ounce  of  its  dramatic  possibilities.  The  play  is  an  incident, 
simple  and  unified;  the  art  with  which  it  is  unfolded  is  direct 
and  all-sufficient. 


PLAYS 

Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 


*Only    'Round    the    Corner 

(1878) 
*Hearts  of  Oak  (1879) 
*Harmony  (1879) 
*Elopement  (1879) 
*A  Clerical  Error  (1879) 
*An  Old  Master  (1881) 

His  Wife  (1881) 

Home  Again  (1881) 
*A  Bed  of  Roses  (1881) 

The  Silver  King  (1882) 
(In   collaboration   with 
Henry  Herman) 

Chatterton  (1884) 

Saints  and  Sinners  (1884) 

Hoodman  Blind  (1885) 

The  Lord  Harry  (1886) 

The  Noble  Vagabond  (1886) 

Hard  Hit  (1887) 

Heart  of  Hearts  (1887) 

Wealth  (1889) 

The  Middleman  (1889) 

Judah  (1890) 


*SweetWill  (1890) 
*The  Deacon  (1890) 
The  Dancing  Girl  (1891) 
The  Crusaders  (1891) 
The  Bauble  Shop  (1893) 
The  Tempter  (1893) 
The  Masqueraders  (1894) 
The  Case  of  Rebellious  Su- 
san (1894) 
The  Triumph  of  the  Philis- 
tines (1895) 
Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel 

(1896) 
The  Rogue's  Comedy  (1896) 
The  Physician  (1897) 
The  Liars  (1897) 
*GraceMary  (1898) 
The  Manoeuvres  of  Jane 

(1898) 
Carnac  Sahib  (1899) 
The  Lackey's  Carnival 

(1900) 
Mrs.  Dane's  Defence  (1900) 


THE   GOAL  45 


The  Princess's  Nose  (1902)         We  Can't  Be  As  Bad  As  All 
Chance  The  Idol  (1902)  That  (1910) 

Whitewashing  Julia  (1903)  *The  Knife  (1910) 

Joseph  Entangled  (1904)  The  Ogre  (1911) 

The  Chevaleer  (1904)  Lydia  Gilmore  (1912) 

The  Heroic  Stubbs  (1906)  The  Divine  Gift  (1912) 

The  Hypocrites  (1906)  Mary  Goes  First  (1913) 

The  Goal  (1907)  The  Lie  (1914) 

The  Evangelist  (1907)  Cock  o' The  Walk  (1915) 

Dolly  Reforming  Herself  *Her  Tongue  (1915) 

(1908)  The  Pacifists  (1917) 

*Fall  In,  Rookies!  (1910) 

"Harmony",  "Elopement",  "Hearts  of  Oak",  "A  Clerical 
Error",  "An  Old  Master",  "A  Bed  of  Roses",  "The  Deacon", 
"Sweet  Will",  "Joseph  Entangled",  "The  Silver  King", 
"The  Dancing  Girl",  "The  Hypocrites",  "Mrs.  Dane's 
Defence",  "The  Case  of  Rebellious  Susan",  "The  Liars", 
"The  Masqueraders",  "Dolly  Reforming  Herself",  "The 
Tempter",  "The  Manoeuvres  of  Jane",  "Judah",  "The 
Physician",  "Whitewashing  Julia",  "The  Rogue's  Comedy", 
"The  Triumph  of  the  Philistines",  and  "Mary  Goes  First" 
are  published  separately  by  Samuel  French,  New  York;  "The 
Crusaders",  "Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel",  and  "Carnac 
Sahib"  separately  by  Macmillan  Company,  New  York;  "The 
Divine  Gift"  and  "The  Lie"  separately  by  George  H.  Doran 
Company,  New  York;  and  "The  Goal",  "Her  Tongue",  and 
"Grace  Mary",  in  "The  Theater  of  Ideas",  by  the  same. 

References:  George  Moore,  "Impressions  and  Opinions", 
Brentano's,  New  York;  Clayton  Hamilton,  "The  Theory  of 
the  Theater",  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York; 
Brander  Matthews,  "A  Study  of  the  Drama",  Houghton, 
Mifflin  Company,  Boston;  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  "The  Re- 
nascence of  the  English  Drama",  Macmillan,  New  York; 
"The  Foundations  of  a  National  Drama",  Doran;  Introduc- 
tion to  Brunetiere's  "The  Law  of  the  Drama",  Dramatic 
Museum   of   Columbia  University;   and  prefaces  to   "The 


46  THE  GOAL 


Theater  of  Ideas",  "The  Divine  Gift",  and  "The  Case  of 
Rebellious  Susan." 

Magazines:  North  American  Review,  vol.  clxxxvi,  p.  205, 
New  York;  The  Reader,  vol.  ix,  p.  105,  New  York;  Blackwood's, 
vol.  xciv,  p.  283,  London. 


THE  GOAL 

A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT 


BY  HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 


"The  Goal"  was  first  produced  at  London  in  1897. 

Characters 

Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  the  great  Engineer 
Daniel  Famariss,  his  son,  Engineer 
Sir  Lydden  Crane,  M.D. 
Adams,  Sir  Stephen's  Butler 
Peggie  Lovel 
Nurse  Clandon 

Scene:  Sir  Stephen's  bedroom  in  Belgravia. 
Time:  1897. 


Copyright,  1915,  by  George  H.  Doran  Company. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  author  and  publisher,  from  "The  Theatre  of  Ideas", 
published  by  George  H.  Doran  Company. 

Note.  The  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  fully  protected  in  all  countries.  Legal 
proceedings  will  be  taken  against  anyone  who  attempts  to  infringe  them.  Application 
for  terms  for  professional  dramatic  performances  in  America  and  Canada  should  be  ad- 
Iressed  to  The  American  Play  Company,  iEolian  Building,  33  West  42nd  St.,  New 
York.  For  amateur  performances  to  Samuel  French,  Publisher,  28  West  38th  Street, 
New  York. 


THE  GOAL 

Scene.  The  dressing  room  of  Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  Bel- 
grave  Square.  A  very  richly  furnished  apartment,  with  every 
evidence  of  wealth  and  luxury.  Up  stage  right  an  archway,  set 
diagonally,  shows  a  bedroom  beyond  with  foot  of  brass  bedstead 
placed  sideways  to  audience.  The  bedroom  is  dimly  lighted. 
A  large  bow-window,  rather  deeply  recessed,  runs  along  the  left 
at  back,  and  looks  across  a  courtyard  to  another  house,  whose 
windows  are  brilliantly  lighted.  Figures  dancing  are  seen  mov- 
ing across  the  windows  in  accordance  with  indications  given 
through  the  play.  Between  archway  and  window  a  large  hand- 
some bureau.  A  door  left  down  stage.  Down  stage  right,  fire- 
place with  fire  burning.  A  mirror  over  fireplace.  A  large  com- 
fortable sofa  down  stage  right.  A  table  left  of  sofa  near  centre 
of  stage,  with  bottle  of  champagne  and  glasses  on  it.  Another 
table  up  stage  left  above  door.  Upon  it  medicine  bottles,  spirit 
lamp,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  a  sick  room.  A  large  pier 
looking-glass  up  stage  above  sofa.  Other  furniture  as  required, 
all  indicating  great  wealth  and  comfort.  Time,  about  ten  on  an 
April  evening.  Discover  on  sofa,  asleep,  Sir  Stephen  Famariss. 
A  rug  is  thrown  over  him,  and  his  head  is  buried  in  a  pillow,  so 
that  nothing  is  seen  of  him  but  a  figure  under  the  rug.  Nurse 
Clandon,  in  nurse's  costume,  about  thirty,  is  seated  in  chair  at 
table,  reading.  The  door,  left,  is  very  softly  opened,  and  Sir 
Lydden  Crane  enters,  a  little,  dry,  shrewd,  wizened  old  man 
about  seventy,  with  manners  of  a  London  physician.  Nurse 
rises  and  puts  down  her  book. 

crane.     Well?     How  has  he  been  all  the  afternoon? 
nurse.     Just  as  usual.     He  won't  keep  quiet.     About  an 

hour  ago  he  fell  asleep.  [Pointing  to  Sir  Stephen. 

crane.     Mr.  Daniel  Famariss  has  not  arrived? 


50  THE   GOAL 


nurse.  No.  He  sent  another  telegram  for  him  this  even- 
ing.    And  he  keeps  on  asking  for  the  evening  papers. 

crane.     Well? 

nurse.  I've  kept  them  from  him.  They  all  have  long  ac- 
counts of  his  illness.  (Talcing  an  evening  paper  from  under 
the  table  cover,  giving  it  to  Crane)     Look! 

crane  (taking  paper,  reading).     "Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  the 

great  engineer,  is  dying "     Hum! 

[A  very  gentle  knock  is  heard  at  door  left.  Nurse  goes  to  it, 
opens  it.     Adams  comes  in  a  step. 

adams.  I  beg  pardon.  Mrs.  Lovel  has  sent  in  to  ask  how 
Sir  Stephen  is;  and  to  say  that  she's  very  sorry  the  ball- 
room is  so  near  his  bedroom;  and  if  the  noise  of  the  ball 
will  upset  Sir  Stephen,  she'll  be  very  pleased  to  put  it  off, 
and  send  her  guests  away? 

nurse.     What  do  you  think,  Sir  Lydden? 

crane.  All  excitement  is  very  dangerous  for  Sir  Stephen. 
The  next  attack  may  be  fatal.  Will  you  give  my  compli- 
ments to  Mrs.  Lovel,  and  say  that  since  she  is  so  kind  I 
will  beg  her  to  postpone  the  ball? 

[Sir  Stephen  stirs,  throws  off  the  quilt.  He  is  in  a  rich  dress- 
ing-gown. A  wiry,  handsome,  very  intellectual-looking  man 
about  seventy-five;  well-seasoned,  vigorous  frame;  pale,  sharp, 
strong  features,  showing  signs  of  great  recent  pain. 

sir  Stephen.  Will  you  give  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Lovel, 
and  say  that  since  she  is  so  kind  I  will  beg  her  to  do  nothing 
of  the  kind.  What  rubbish,  Crane!  Because  I  happen  to 
be  dying,  to  stop  the  innocent  pleasure  of  a  couple  of 
hundred  young  people!  Thank  Mrs.  Lovel  very  much, 
Adams,  for  sending  in,  and  say  that  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 
I  shall  die  to-night;  but  that  if  I  do,  her  dancing  won't  in 
the  least  interfere  with  my  dying,  and  I  hope  she  won't 
allow  my  dying  to  interfere  with  her  dancing.  I  very 
much  wish  the  ball  to  take  place.  (Very  imperiously)  It's 
not  to  be  put  off!     You  understand? 

adams.     Yes,  Sir  Stephen.  [Going. 

sir  Stephen.     And,  Adams,  give  my  compliments  to  Mrs. 


THE   GOAL  51 


Lovel,  and  say  that  if  she  doesn't  mind,  I  should  like  to 
see  Miss  Lovel  in  her  ball  dress  for  a  moment  before  the 
ball.  Say  that  I'm  quite  presentable,  and  I  won't  frighten 
Miss  Lovel.  [Exit  Adams. 

sir  Stephen.     Well,  Crane,  am  I  going  off  this  time? 

crane.  This  last  attack  coming  so  quickly  after  the  other 
is  very  alarming  and  —  very  dangerous. 

sir  Stephen.  Yes,  but  am  I  going  to  pull  through  again,  or 
must  I  put  up  the  shutters? 

crane.     Well  —  well 

sir  Stephen  (seeing  paper  on  table  where  Crane  has  put  it). 
Is  that  to-night's  paper?     (No  reply)     Give  it  to  me. 

crane  (deprecatingly).     Famariss 

sir  Stephen.     Give  it  to  me. 
[Crane  gives  it  to  him  reluctantly . 

sir  Stephen  (reading  from  paper).  "Alarming  illness  of 
Sir  Stephen  Famariss.  Angina  Pectoris.  Fatal  symp- 
toms. Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  the  great  engineer,  is  dy- 
ing  "     There's  nothing  like  making  sure  of  your  facts. 

crane.     Too  sure! 

sir  Stephen  (drily).  So  I  think.  What  do  you  say?  How 
long  am  I  going  to  live? 

crane.     Well 

sir  Stephen.  Come  out  with  it,  old  friend.  I'm  not  afraid 
to  hear. 

crane.  With  the  greatest  care,  I  see  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  live  some  weeks  —  or  months. 

sir  Stephen.  Shall  I  live  long  enough  to  carry  out  my  Mil- 
ford  Haven  scheme?     Tell  me  the  truth. 

crane.     No.     You  certainly  won't. 

sir  Stephen  (shows  intense  disappointment).    You're  sure? 

crane.     I'm  sure. 

sir  Stephen.  But  I  shall  live  long  enough  to  start  it,  to  put 
it  into  other  hands,  into  my  son's  hands  —  if  the  rebellious 
fool  will  only  learn  wisdom  and  make  it  up  with  me  before 
I  die.     I  shall  live  long  enough  for  that? 

crane.     No.     I  fear  not. 


52  THE   GOAL 


sir  Stephen  (going  to  bureau).  But  I've  got  a  third  of  it 
on  paper.  (Taking  out  plans)  I've  kept  it  here.  I've 
worked  at  it  when  I  couldn't  sleep.  If  I  can  last  out  an- 
other six  months,  I  can  do  it.  Come,  Crane,  don't  be 
stingy.     Give  me  another  six  months!     Eh? 

crane.  Famariss,  you  won't  last  six  months  even  with  the 
greatest  care.     You  may  not  last  six  weeks 

sir  Stephen.     Nor  six  days? 

crane.     Nor  six  days. 

sir  Stephen.     Nor  six  hours? 

CRANE.      Oh ! 

sir  Stephen.     Nor  six  hours.   Thank  you.    I'm  prepared. 

crane.     Your  son  hasn't  come  yet? 

sir  Stephen.  No.  I've  telegraphed  him  twice  —  and  my 
terms. 

crane.  Is  it  worth  while  —  of  course,  you  know  best  —  is  it 
worth  while  to  stick  out  for  terms  when ? 

sir  Stephen.  When  one  is  in  face  of  death.  Yes  —  on  a 
matter  of  principle.  If  Dan  comes  here,  he  comes  on  my 
terms.  I'll  keep  my  word;  I  won't  set  eyes  on  him  —  he 
shan't  pass  that  door  until  he  owns  he  was  wrong. 

crane.     But 

sir  Stephen  (getting  excited).  But  he  was  wrong.  He  was 
wrong,  and  no  power  on  earth  shall  make  me 

crane  (soothing  him).  Hush!  If  he  does  come,  you  must 
avoid  all  excitement  in  meeting  him.  Your  only  chance 
of  prolonging  your  life  is  to  keep  absolutely  quiet.  You 
must  lay  up  all  day 

sir  Stephen.     Lay  up  all  day!     Don't  talk  nonsense! 

crane.     If  you  don't 

sir  Stephen.     If  I  don't 


crane.     You  may  die  at  any  moment. 

sir  Stephen.  But  if  I  do,  I'm  dead  already.  No,  Crane, 
I'll  live  to  my  last  moment,  whenever  it  comes.  When  I 
do  take  to  my  bed,  I'll  take  to  it  once  for  all,  in  the  church- 
yard, beside  my  Peggie!  (Very  softly,  very  tenderly,  half 
to  himself)     My  Peggie!     My  Peggie!     If  I  do  go  off,  I 


THE   GOAL  53 


shall  see  her  again,  I  suppose  —  if  it  isn't  all  moonshine! 
Open  the  window,  Nurse!  It's  getting  hot  here!  (The 
Nurse  opens  window)  Open  that  champagne,  Crane,  and 
pour  yourself  out  a  glass,  and  pour  me  out  a  glass.  My 
Peggie!  My  Peggie!  I  wonder  if  it  is  all  moonshine! 
[The  musicians  in  the  ballroom  opposite  begin  to  tune  up  their 
fiddles.     Nurse  comes  doivn. 

sir  Stephen.  That's  right!  Tune  up!  Tune  up!  And 
Peggie  Lovel  promised  me  the  first  dance !    Tune  up ! 

nurse.     You  must  keep  quiet 

sir  Stephen  (pettishly).     Runaway!     Runaway! 

[Crane  makes  Nurse  a  sign,  and  she  goes  off  into  bedroom. 
Crane  has  opened  the  champagne  and  poured  out  two  glasses. 
He  brings  one  to  Sir  Stephen. 

sir  Stephen.  It's  the  eighty-four  Saint  Marceaux.  I've 
left  you  half  what's  left  of  this,  Crane,  and  I've  left  my 
mule  of  a  boy  the  other  half.  He's  my  heir.  I  won't 
see  him ;  no,  not  if  I 

crane.     Hush !    Hush ! 

sir  Stephen.  I  won't  see  him  unless  he  submits.  But  I've 
left  him  every  penny,  except  what  goes  to  charities  and 
churches.  It's  very  puzzling  to  know  what  to  do  with 
one's  money,  Crane.  I've  left  a  heap  to  charities,  and 
I've  squared  all  the  churches.  I  hope  it  won't  do  much 
harm.  (A  little  chuckle)  There's  one  thing  I  regret  in 
dying,  Crane :  I  shan't  be  able  to  hear  my  funeral  sermons. 
But  you  will 

crane.  Don't  make  too  sure.  I  may  go  off  first;  but  if  I 
am  doomed,  I  hope  the  oratory  will  be  of  as  good  a  vintage 
as  this. 

sir  Stephen.  It  ought  to  be,  considering  what  I've  left  them 
all.  Give  them  a  hint,  Crane,  not  to  whitewash  my  sep- 
ulchre with  any  lying  cant.  Don't  let  them  make  a 
plaster-of -Paris  saint  of  me!  I  won't  have  it!  I  won't 
have  it!  I've  been  a  man,  and  never  less  than  a  man. 
I've  never  refused  to  do  the  work  that  came,  in  my  way, 
and,  thank  God,  I've  never  refused  to  taste  a  pleasure. 


54  THE  GOAL 


And  I've  had  a  rare  good  time  in  this  rare  good  world.     I 
wish  I'd  got  to  live  it  all  over  again! 

crane.     You  do? 

sir  Stephen.  Yes;  every  moment  of  it,  good  and  evil, 
pleasure  and  pain,  love  and  work,  success  and  failure,  youth 
and  age,  I'd  fill  the  cup  again,  and  I'd  drain  it  to  the  dregs 
if  I  could.     You  wouldn't? 

crane.     No.     Once  is  enough  for  me. 

sir  Stephen.  You  see,  Crane,  before  starting  in  life,  I  took 
the  one  great  step  to  secure  success  and  happiness. 

crane.     What's  that? 

sir  Stephen.  I  made  an  excellent  choice  of  my  father  and 
mother.  Not  rich.  Not  aristocratic.  But  a  good,  sound, 
healthy  stock  on  both  sides.  What's  the  cause  of  all  the 
weak,  snivelling  pessimism  we  hear?  What's  the  cause  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  misery  around  us  —  ruined  lives;  shat- 
tered health;  physical,  moral,  intellectual  beggary?  What's 
the  cause  of  doctors'  bills? 

crane.     Well,  what  is? 

sir  Stephen.  Men  and  women  exercise  no  care  in  choosing 
their  fathers  and  mothers.  You  doctors  know  it!  You 
doctors  know  it!  Once  choose  your  father  and  mother 
wisely,  and  you  can  play  all  sorts  of  tricks  with  your  con- 
stitution. You  can  drink  your  half  bottle  of  champagne 
at  seventy -five  and  enjoy  it!     Another  glass! 

crane.  No,  I  must  be  going!  (Rising)  And  (tapping  bot- 
tle) you  mustn't  take  any  more. 

sir  Stephen.  Don't  talk  nonsense!  Sit  down!  Sit  down! 
Another  glass!  Hobnob,  man;  hobnob!  Life's  but  a 
span!     Why,  this  may  be  the  last  time,  eh? 

crane.  Any  time  may  be  the  last  time.  Any  moment 
may  be  the  last  moment. 

sir  Stephen.  Well,  then,  let's  enjoy  the  last  moment!  I 
tell  you,  Crane,  I'm  ready.  All  my  affairs  are  in  perfect 
order.  I  should  have  liked  to  finish  that  Milford  Haven 
scheme;  but  if  it  isn't  to  be —  (deep  sigh)  — Hobnob,  man; 
hobnob ! 


THE   GOAL  55 


crane.     What  a  lovely  wine! 

sir  Stephen.  Isn't  it?  I  remember  Goethe  says  that  the 
man  who  drinks  wine  is  damned,  but  the  man  who  drinks 
bad  wine  is  doubly  damned.  Pray  God  you  and  I  may 
be  only  damned  once,  Crane. 

crane.     Oh,  that's  past  praying  for  —  in  my  case ! 

sir  Stephen.  Eighty -four!  I  was  boring  a  hole  through 
the  Rockies  that  summer  —  ah,  Crane,  what  glorious  sum- 
mers I've  had!  —  seventy-five  glorious  golden  summers  — 
and  now  —  Hobnob,  man;  hobnob!  You've  had  a  good 
innings,  too,  Crane. 

crane.  Hum!  Pretty  fair.  I  eat  well,  drink  well,  sleep 
well,  get  my  early  morning  jog  in  the  Park  and  enjoy  it, 
get  my  two  months  on  the  moors,  and  enjoy  them.  I  feel 
as  fit  to-day  as  I  did  thirty  years  ago.  There's  only  one 
pleasure  that  fails  me  —  (with  a  grimace  at  Sir  Stephen) — 
Gone !     Gone !     Gone ! 

sir  Stephen.  Don't  fret  about  that!  We  thought  it  a 
pleasure,  old  crony,  while  it  lasted.  Now  it's  gone,  let's 
call  it  a  plague  and  a  sin,  and  thank  God  for  giving  us  a 
little  peace  in  our  old  age.  Ah,  dear,  dear,  what  a  havoc 
women  have  made  of  the  best  half  of  my  life;  but  — 
(brightening) — I've  left  some  good  work  behind  me,  in 
spite  of  the  hussies!  And,  thank  Heaven,  my  throat  has 
held  out  to  the  last.  [Drinking. 

crane  (drinking).     And  mine! 

sir  Stephen.  Crane,  what  was  that  joke  that  came  up  at 
poor  Farley's  funeral? 

crane.     Joke? 

sir  Stephen.  Don't  you  remember  while  we  were  waiting  for 
them  to  bring  dear  old  Farley  downstairs,  Maidment  began 
telling  that  story  about  the  geese  and  the  Scotch-boy 

crane.     Yes,  yes;  to  be  sure!  [Beginning  to  laugh. 

sir  Stephen.  And  just  as  we  were  enjoying  the  joke,  we 
suddenly  remembered  where  we  were,  and  you  pulled  us 
up,  and  spoilt  the  joke! 

crane.     Yes,  yes,  I  remember. 


56  THE  GOAL 


sir  Stephen.     Crane,  if  Maidment  tells  that  story  at  my 

funeral,  don't  pull  him  up 

crane.     Eh? 

sir  Stephen.     It's  a  good  joke,  man !     Don't  waste  it !  Have 

your  laugh  out,  and  say  from  me  that,  other  conditions 

being  favourable,  I'm  enjoying  it  as  heartily  as  any  of 

you!     You  will,  eh?     You  will? 
crane.     Yes,  I  will!     I  will! 

[They  both  laugh  a  little.     Adams  opens  door  left,  and  comes 

in  a  step. 
adams.     Miss  Lovel  has  come,  Sir  Stephen. 
sir  Stephen.     Show  her  in,  Adams.  [Exit  Adams. 

crane.     I  must  be  going. 

[Reenter  Adams,  showing  in  Peggie  Lovel,  a  debutante  of 

eighteen,  in  her  first  ball  dress;  radiant,  excited,  beautifully 

dressed,  a  vision  of  girlish  loveliness.     She  is  frivolous  and 

self-conscious,  and  full  of  little  airs  and  graces,  constantly 

glancing  at  herself  in  the  two  mirrors. 
adams  (announcing).     Miss  Lovel.  [Exit  Adams. 

sir  Stephen.     Come  in,  Peggie.     I  mustn't  call  you  Peggie 

any  more.     Come  in,  Miss  Lovel. 
peggie.     Mamma  said  you  would  like  to  see  me  for  a  minute 

before  the  ball! 
sir  Stephen.     If  you  don't  mind. 

peggie.     How  d'ye  do,  Sir  Lydden?  [Shaking  hands. 

crane.     How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Lovel?  Good  night,  Sir  Stephen. 

[Holding  out  hand. 
sir  Stephen.     Don't  go,  old  chum. 

[Taking  his  hand,  retaining  it,  keeping  Crane. 
crane.     I  must.     (Taking  out  watch)     I  have  a  consultation 

at  eleven. 
sir  Stephen  (piteously).     Don't  go,  old  chum. 
crane.     It's  really  pressing.     It's  Lord  Albert  Swale.    He 

won't  last  till  the  morning. 
sir  Stephen.     Don't  go.     I  may  be  meeting  him  soon,  and 

I'll  make  your  apologies.     (Very  piteously)     Don't  go,  old 

chum! 


THE   GOAL  57 


crane.  I  must.  {Nurse  enters  from  bedroom)  Nurse,  I 
want  a  word  with  you  downstairs.  (Nurse  crosses  to  left, 
and  exit.  To  Sir  Stephen)  I'll  look  in,  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning. 

sir  Stephen.     Do.     You'll  find  me  —  at  home. 

crane.     Good  night.     Good  night,  Miss  Lovel. 

peggie.     Good  night,  Sir  Lydden. 

crane  (in  a  low  tone  to  Peggie).  You  mustn't  stay  long,  and 
you  mustn't  let  Sir  Stephen  excite  himself.  (To  Sir 
Stephen)     I'd  rather  see  you  in  bed 

sir  Stephen  (very  impatiently).  Tut!  Tut!  Tut!  I  won't 
be  buried  before  I'm  dead.  (Rather  curtly)  Good  night. 
(Crane  waits.  Imperiously)  Good  night !  (Crane  is  going) 
And,  Crane,  remember  —  no  whitewash  on  my  sepulchre! 
[Exit  Crane,  left.  Peggie  meantime  has  taken  off  her  cloak. 
All  through  she  is  eager  and  excited,  glances  at  herself  in  the 
glasses  very  often. 

peggie.     I'm  so  sorry  you're  ill,  Sir  Stephen. 

sir  Stephen.  I'm  not  ill,  my  dear.  The  old  machine  seems 
just  as  strong  and  tough  as  ever,  only  —  it's  gone  "crack" 
in  a  weak  place.  Well,  I've  knocked  it  about  all  over 
the  world  for  seventy-five  years,  and  if  it  hadn't  gone 
crack  in  one  place,  I  suppose  it  would  in  another.  Never 
mind  me.  Let's  talk  about  you.  Go  and  stand  there, 
and  let  me  look  at  you. 

peggie  (displaying  her  dress).  Do  you  like  me?  Do  you 
like  my  dress? 

sir  Stephen.     It's  a  triumph! 

peggie  (chattering  on).  You  can't  imagine  what  trouble 
mamma  and  I  have  taken  over  it.  Long  sleeves  are  com- 
ing in  for  evening  wear.  So  I  had  long  sleeves  at  first. 
I  was  all  sleeves.  So  I  had  them  taken  out  and  short 
sleeves  put  in.  The  dressmaker  made  a  horrible  muddle 
of  them.  So  we  tried  long  sleeves  again.  I  looked  a 
perfect  fright! 

sir  Stephen.     I  won't  believe  it. 

peggie.     Yes,  I  did,  I  assure  you.     So  at  the  last  moment 


58  THE   GOAL 


I  had  the  long  sleeves  taken  out  and  the  short  sleeves 

dodged  up  with  lace.     Which  do  you  like  best?     Long 

sleeves  or  short  sleeves? 
sir  Stephen.     Long  sleeves  for  ugly  arms  —  short  sleeves  for 

beautiful  arms! 
peggie  (frowning  at  him  and  shaking  her  head).    Ah!    What 

do  you  think  of  the  bodice? 
sir  Stephen.     Enchanting! 
peggie.     It  is  rather  neat,  isn't  it? 
sir  Stephen.     Neat?     I  should  call  it  gorgeous! 
peggie.     Oh,  you  must  see  the  one  I've  got  for  the  Lard- 

ner's  dance  next  Monday.     Would  you  like  to  see  it? 
sir  Stephen.     Very  much  —  on  Monday. 
peggie.     I'll  run  in  for  a  moment  before  I  go. 

SIR  STEPHEN.       Do. 

peggie.  That's  a  square-cut  bodice.  This  is  a  round-cut 
bodice.  Which  do  you  like  best?  Round-cut  bodices,  or 
square-cut  bodices? 

sir  Stephen.  To-night  I  like  round-cut  bodices.  On  Mon- 
day I  think  I  shall  prefer  square-cut  bodices. 

peggie.  I  think  I  prefer  a  square-cut  bodice.  I  had  a 
square-cut  bodice  to  this  at  first.  I  looked  a  perfect 
monster,  so  I  had  it  taken  out  and  this  round-cut  bodice 
put  in.  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  quite  right  now,  and  I've 
tried  it  on  fifty  times  —  I'm  worrying  you  to  death. 

sir  Stephen.     No !  no! 

peggie.  Yes,  I  am,  and  I  can't  stay  five  minutes.  Are 
you  sure  you  wouldn't  rather  have  the  ball  put  off?  We 
will  put  it  off  even  now,  if  you  wish. 

sir  Stephen.     Not  for  the  world!  not  for  the  world! 

peggie.     That's  so  good  of  you!     But  I  really  think  you'll 
be  better   to-morrow.     I'm   sure  you   will.     You   aren't 
really  very  ill,  are  you?     Do  you  like  this  embroidery? 
[Pointing  to  trimming  on  her  skirt. 

sir  Stephen.     It's  beautiful!     Isn't  it  Indian  work? 

peggie.  Yes;  handmade.  It  took  a  man  twelve  or  fifteen 
years  to  make  this  one  strip. 


THE   GOAL  59 


sir  Stephen.  A  quarter  of  a  lifetime  to  decorate  you  for  a 
few  hours.  It  was  time  well  spent.  Ah,  Peggie,  that's 
the  sum  and  meaning  of  all  our  toil  and  money-grubbing! 

peggie.     What  is? 

sir  Stephen.  To  make  our  women-folk  beautiful.  It  all 
comes  to  that  in  the  end.  Let  Nature  and  Art  knock 
their  heads  together  till  doomsday,  they'll  never  teach 
one  another  any  finer  trick  than  to  show  a  beautiful 
maiden  to  a  handsome  young  fellow,  or  a  handsome  young 
fellow  to  a  beautiful  maiden. 

[Peggie  has  got  behind  him  and  is  admiring  herself  in  the 
glass. 

peggie.  Really!  Really!  Yes,  I  suppose  you're  right. 
You're  sure  I'm  not  worrying  you 

sir  Stephen.  No,  no.  Don't  go.  I'm  quite  at  leisure  now 
to  the  end  of  my  life. 

peggie.  Oh,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that!  So  I  may  tell 
mamma  that  you  like  my  dress?  What  do  you  think  of 
the  skirt? 

sir  Stephen.     Isn't  there  too  much  trimming  on  it? 

peggie.     Oh,  no!     Oh,  no! 

sir  Stephen.     Yes,  there's  too  much  trimming. 

peggie.  Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!  The  dressmaker  said  there  wasn't 
enough. 

sir  Stephen.  Stupid  hussies,  dressmakers!  They're  like 
other  folks!  They're  always  the  last  to  know  anything 
about  their  own  business.  Tell  your  dressmaker  that 
simplicity  is  the  keynote  of  a  great  style  in  dressmaking, 
and  engineering  —  subtle  simplicity.  The  next  time  she  is 
going  to  make  you  a  dress,  tell  her  to  take  a  walk  through 
our  National  Gallery 

peggie.  Oh,  Sir  Stephen,  you  surely  wouldn't  dress  me  like 
those  old  guys  in  the  National  Gallery!  What  would  my 
partners  say? 

sir  Stephen.  Your  partners!  Ah,  you  pretty  tyrant,  you'll 
turn  a  great  many  heads,  and  set  a  great  many  hearts 
beating  to-night! 


60  THE   GOAL 


peggie.     Shall  I?     Shall  I? 

sir  Stephen.  Why,  you've  set  my  old  worn-out  heart  flut- 
tering, and,  goodness  knows,  it  ought  to  have  done  beating 
for  pretty  girls  at  seventy-five  —  it  ought  to  know  better 
at  seventy -five !  But  it  doesn't,  and  —  (rising  with  great 
determination)  —  I've  a  great  mind 

peggie  (a  little  alarmed).  Sir  Stephen,  what  are  you  going 
to  do? 

sir  Stephen.     Don't  you  remember  your  promise? 

peggie.     My  promise? 

sir  Stephen.  Your  birthday  party  six  years  ago!  You 
danced  with  me,  and  you  promised  that  I  should  be  your 
first  partner  at  your  first  ball  after  you  came  out ! 

peggie.     Of  course  —  I'd  forgotten! 

sir  Stephen.  But  I  hadn't!  Will  you  keep  your  promise, 
Peggie?     Will  you  keep  your  promise? 

peggie.  Wouldn't  it  be  dangerous,  and  —  you  don't  really 
wish  it? 

sir  Stephen  (sinking  down).  You're  right,  my  dear.  I'm 
foolish  with  old  age.     Forgive  me! 

peggie.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  But  you'll  be  able 
to  see  us  dancing  across  the  garden.  You  can  stand  at 
that  window  and  look  on. 

sir  Stephen.     Look  on !     That's  all  I'm  fit  for  now  —  to  look 
on  at  life ! 
[Turning  away  his  head. 

peggie.     Sir  Stephen,  what's  the  matter? 

sir  Stephen.  I've  always  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight, 
Peggie.  And  I  feel  to-night  as  strong  as  ever  I  did,  and 
they  tell  me  I  must  lay  up  and  look  on  —  (rising  with  great 
energy  and  determination)  —  I  won't !     I  won't ! 

peggie.     Sir  Stephen. 

sir  Stephen.  I  can't  bear  it,  Peggie.  I've  enjoyed  my  life, 
and  I  don't  want  to  leave  it.  I  want  to  live,  and  five,  and 
live  —  and  I  will!  Ah,  what  a  selfish  old  coward  I  am! 
I'm  like  a  man  who  has  sat  down  to  a  good  table  d'hote, 
and  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  and  now  the  host  tells  me  my 


THE   GOAL  Gl 


place  is  wanted  for  another  guest,  I  cry  out  and  want  to 
have  my  dinner  over  again !  Don't  take  any  notice  of  me, 
dear.  Tell  me  about  your  partners.  Who's  going  to 
dance  with  you  to-night? 

peggie.  Oh,  I  suppose  Mr.  Lascellcs,  Freddie  Lister,  Lord 
Doverbury,  Johnny  Butler,  Sir  Egerton  Wendover,  Dick 
French  —  amongst  others. 

sir  Stephen.     Peggie 

peggie.     Yes 

sir  Stephen.  You  won't  misunderstand  me,  dear.  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandfather.  {Takes  her  hand  very 
tenderly)  You  won't  misunderstand  me.  {Very  seri- 
ously) Take  care  how  you  choose  your  partner  for  life. 
You'll  have  a  wide  choice,  and  all  your  future  happiness, 
and  the  happiness  of  many  generations  to  come,  will  de- 
pend on  the  one  moment  when  you  say  "Yes"  to  one  of 
the  scores  of  young  fellows  who'll  ask  you  to  be  his  wife. 
Take  care,  dear!  Take  care!  Look  him  thoroughly  up 
and  down!  Be  sure  that  he  has  a  good  full  open  eye  that 
can  look  you  straight  in  the  face;  and  be  sure  that  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  are  clear.  Take  care  he  hasn't  got  a 
queer-shaped  head,  or  a  low  forehead.  A  good  round 
head,  and  a  good  full  high  forehead,  do  you  hear?  Notice 
the  grip  of  his  hand  when  he  shakes  hands  with  you! 
Take  care  it's  strong  and  firm,  and  not  cold  and  dry.  No 
young  man  should  have  a  cold,  dry  hand.  Don't  say 
"Yes"  till  you've  seen  him  out  of  trousers,  in  riding  dress, 
or  court  dress.  Look  at  the  shape  of  his  legs  —  a  good, 
well-shaped  leg,  eh,  Peggie?  And  take  care  it  is  his  leg! 
See  that  he's  well-knit  and  a  little  lean,  not  flabby;  doesn't 
squint;  doesn't  stammer;  hasn't  got  any  nervous  tricks  or 
twitchings.  Don't  marry  a  bald  man !  They  say  we  shall 
all  be  bald  in  ten  generations.  Wait  ten  generations, 
Peggie,  and  then  don't  marry  a  bald  man!  Can  you  re- 
member all  this,  dear?  Watch  his  walk!  See  that  he 
has  a  good  springy  step,  and  feet  made  of  elastic  —  can  do 
his  four  or  five  miles  an  hour  without  turning  a  hair. 


62  THE   GOAL 


Don't  have  him  if  he  has  a  cough  in  the  winter  or  the  spring. 
Young  men  ought  never  to  have  a  cough.  And  be  sure 
he  can  laugh  well  and  heartily  —  not  a  snigger,  or  a  wheeze, 
or  a  cackle,  but  a  good,  deep,  hearty  laugh  right  down 
from  the  bottom  of  his  chest.  And  if  he  has  a  little  money, 
or  even  a  good  bit,  so  much  the  better!  There  now!  You 
choose  a  man  like  that,  Peggie,  and  I  won't  promise 
you  that  you'll  be  happy,  but  if  you're  not,  it  won't 
be  your  fault,  and  it  won't  be  his,  and  it  won't  be 
mine ! 

peggie.     Very  well,  Sir  Stephen,  I'll  try  and  remember. 

sir  Stephen.  Do,  my  dear,  do!  It's  a  good  legacy,  my 
dear.  I've  left  you  another.  You  won't  be  disappointed 
when  my  will's  read 

peggie.     Oh,  Sir  Stephen ! 

sir  Stephen.  No,  you  won't;  but  remember  my  advice 
to-night.  That's  the  best  wedding  present  for  any 
girl. 

peggie.  Very  well,  Sir  Stephen !  I  must  be  going.  Good-bye. 
[Giving  her  hand. 

sir  Stephen.  Yes,  I  suppose  you  mustn't  stay.  {Taking 
her  hand,  keeping  it  as  he  had  kept  Crane's,  as  if  he  couldn't 
bear  to  let  her  go)     Good-bye. 

[Looking  longingly  at  her  with  a  mute  entreaty  to  stay.  Peggie 
draws  her  hand  away,  puts  on  cloak,  and  goes  to  door,  left. 
He  watches  her  all  the  while. 

peggie  (at  door,  runs  back  to  him).  Sir  Stephen,  I'll  keep 
my  promise.  You  shall  be  my  first  partner.  (Offering 
her  card)     Write  your  name  down  for  my  first  dance. 

sir  Stephen.     But  I  shan't  be  there. 

peggie.     I'll  sit  out,  and  keep  it  for  you. 

SIR  STEPHEN.       No,  no 

peggie.     Yes,  yes!     I  insist.     Put  your  name  down! 

[He  writes  on  her  card.     Enter  Nurse,  left. 
peggie.     Good-bye,  Sir  Stephen. 
sir   Stephen.     Good-bye,   Peggie!     (Softly)     Peggie!    Her 

name  was  Peggie!     My  wife's  name  was  Peggie! 


THE   GOAL  63 


[She  bends  and  kisses  his  forehead;  then  goes  to  door,  turns 
and  looks  at  him. 

peggie.     Au  'voir. 

[Blows  him  a  kiss  and  exit.     Sir  Stephen  looks  longingly 
after  her,  walks  a  little  up  and  doivn  the  room. 

Nurse  (anxiously).  Sir  Stephen,  don't  you  think  you  might 
lie  down  now? 

sir  Stephen.     Run  away!     Run  away! 

nurse.     Won't  you  rest  a  little  on  the  sofa? 

sir  Stephen.     Run  away !    Run  away ! 

nurse.     Can  I  get  you  anything? 

sir  Stephen.  Run  away !  Run  away!  (Pacing  up  and 
down)     Mr.  Daniel  Famariss  hasn't  come  yet? 

nurse.  No.  You  know  they  said  that  he  was  away  survey- 
ing in  an  out-of-the-way  country,  where  no  message  could 
reach  him. 

sir  Stephen.  If  he  should  come  too  late,  tell  him  —  tell  him 
—  I've  gone  surveying  in  an  out-of-the-way  country  — 
where  no  message  can  reach  me!  (Changing  tone)  Dear 
me,  Nurse,  I'm  afraid  this  dying  is  going  to  be  a  very 
tiresome  business  for  both  of  us! 

nurse.     Oh,  Sir  Stephen,  I'm  sure  I  don't  mind! 

sir  Stephen.  You  don't  mind?  That's  very  good  of  you. 
You're  in  no  hurry?     Well,  neither  am  I. 

nurse.     Sir  Stephen,  don't  you  think 

SIR  STEPHEN.      What? 

nurse.     Last  night  you  said  you'd  send  for  a  clergyman. 

sir  Stephen.  Did  I?  That  was  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. How  horribly  demoralized  a  man  gets  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning! 

nurse.     But,  Sir  Stephen 

SIR  STEPHEN.      Well? 

nurse.     Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  begin  to  think  of 

better  things? 
sir  Stephen.     Well.     I'm  seventy-five.     Perhaps  it  is  nearly 

time.     What  better  things? 
nurse.     Death  and  —  judgment. 


64  THE   GOAL 


sir  Stephen.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  I  don't  call  death  and 
judgment  better  things. 

nurse.     But,  Sir  Stephen  —  you  will  be  judged. 

sir  Stephen.  Judged?  Yes.  But  I  shan't  be  judged  by 
the  prayers  I've  said,  and  the  psalms  I've  sung.  I  shan't 
be  judged  by  the  lies  I've  told,  and  the  deceits  I've  prac- 
tised, and  the  passions  I've  given  way  to.  I  shan't  be 
judged  by  the  evil  and  rottenness  in  me.  No;  I  shall  be 
judged  by  the  railways  I've  made,  and  the  canals  I've 
scooped,  and  the  bridges  I've  built  —  and  let  me  tell  you, 
my  dear  creature,  my  accounts  are  in  good  order,  and 
ready  for  inspection  at  any  moment,  and  I  believe  there's 
a  good  balance  on  my  side.  (Guests  have  been  assembling 
in  the  ballroom.  Dance  music  bursts  out.  Dancing  begins) 
Ah!     What  tune  is  that? 

[Goes  up  to  windoiv,  begins  dancing  a  few  steps,  swaying  with 
the  music. 

nurse  (frightened).     Sir  Stephen!     Sir  Stephen! 

sir  Stephen.     Run  a  way !    Run  away! 

nurse.  Sir  Stephen,  you  wouldn't  be  found  dancing  at  the 
end? 

sir  Stephen.  Why  not?  I've  done  my  work!  Why  shouldn't 
I  play  for  a  little  while?  (A  bell  is  heard)  Hark !  The  front 
door  bell 

nurse.     Yes. 
[Goes  to  door,  left. 

sir  Stephen.     Go  downstairs  and  see  if  that's  my  son.    If 

it  is,  tell  him 

[Gentle  knock  at  door,  left.  Adams  enters  a  step.   The  dancing 
and  music  are  continued  in  the  ballroom. 

adams.  I  beg  pardon,  Sir  Stephen.  Mr.  Daniel  Famariss 
has  arrived 

SIR  STEPHEN.      All! 

[Getting  excited. 
adams.     And  would  like  to  see  you. 
sir  Stephen.     Tell  him  he  knows  the  conditions. 
nurse.     But,  Sir  Stephen 


THE   GOAL  65 


sir  Stephen.  Run  away,  my  good  soul!  Run  away.  (To 
Adams)  He  knows  the  conditions.  If  he  accepts  them,  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  see  him. 

dan  (voice  outside  door).     Father! 

sir  Stephen.     Shut  that  door! 

[Adams  nearly  closes  door,  which  is  kept  open  a  few  inches 
from  the  other  side. 

dan  (outside).  Father!  You  won't  shut  the  door  in  my 
face? 

sir  Stephen.  Keep  on  that  side  of  it,  then.  Adams,  you 
can  go.     Leave  the  door  ajar. 

[Exit  Adams,  left.  Sir  Stephen,  with  an  imperious  gesture, 
points  Nurse  to  archway  right.  Exit  Nurse,  into  bedroom, 
with  an  appealing  gesture  to  Sir  Stephen. 

sir  Stephen  (goes  to  door,  left;  it  is  still  open  a  few  inches). 
Are  you  there,  Dan? 

dan  (outside).     Yes,  father. 

sir  Stephen.  I  vowed  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  you  again,  till 
you  owned  you  were  wrong  about  those  girders.  You  were 
wrong?  (No  reply)  You  were  wrong?  (No  reply)  Do  you 
hear?  Confound  you,  you  know  you  were  wrong!  (No 
reply)  Do  you  hear,  Dan?  Why  won't  you  say  you  were 
wrong?  You  won't!  (Slains  door,  goes  right,  has  an  outburst 
of  anger,  recovers,  listens,  goes  back  to  door,  opens  it  a  little) 
Are  you  there,  Dan? 

dan  (outside).     Yes,  father. 

sir  Stephen.  You  were  wrong,  Dan.  (No  reply)  I  haven't 
got  long  to  live,  Dan.  It's  angina  pectoris,  and  the  next 
attack  will  kill  me.  It  may  come  at  any  moment.  (Very 
piteously)  Dan,  you  were  wrong?  Why  won't  you  say  so? 
Even  if  you  tell  a  lie  about  it? 

dan  (outside).     I  was  wrong. 

sir  Stephen.  Ah!  (Flings  open  the  door,  Dan  runs  in.  Sir 
Stephen  meets  him,  embraces  him  affectionately,  with  a  half 
sob)  Why  didn't  you  say  it  before?  You  knew  how  much 
I  loved  you.  W'hy  did  you  keep  apart  from  me  all  these 
years? 


66  THE   GOAL 


dan.  I'm  sorry,  sir.  But  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best.  I've 
done  very  well. 

sir  Stephen.  Of  course  you  have.  You're  my  son.  But 
how  much  better  you'd  have  done  if  you  had  stuck 
to  me!  How  much  better  we  both  should  have  done! 
I'm  sorry,  too,  Dan.  I  was  wrong,  too  —  not  about 
the  girders.  You  were  wrong  about  them,  Dan.  But 
I  was  wrong  to  be  angry  and  to  swear  I  wouldn't 
see  you.  Ah,  what  could  I  have  done  with  you 
at  my  side!  I  could  have  carried  out  my  Milford 
Haven  scheme.  Perhaps  it  isn't  too  late!  (Going  to 
bureau,  getting  more  and  more  excited)     I've  got  all  the 

plans  here 

[Talcing  out  a  heap  of  plans. 

dan.     Not  now,  father;  not  now! 

sir  Stephen.  Yes,  now,  my  boy!  To-morrow  may  be  too 
late!  (Going  to  table)  Come  here,  my  lad!  Oh,  Dan, 
what  years  we've  wasted!  Come  here!  I  want  you  to 
carry  this  out.  You'll  have  immense  opposition.  Beat  it 
down !  You'll  have  to  buy  Shad  well  and  his  lot.  They're 
a  dirty  gang.  But  you'll  have  to  do  it.  I  hate  bribery, 
Dan;  but  when  you've  got  to  do  it,  do  it  thoroughly! 
Then  there's  Mincham.  Buy  him  over,  if  you  can,  at  a 
small  figure  —  say  a  thousand  pounds  —  he's  a  mean  little 
cur;  but  offer  him  that,  and  if  he  won't  take  it,  snap  your 
fingers  at  him,  and  swamp  him !  Remember  the  trick,  the 
scoundrel's  trick,  he  served  me  over  the  granite  for  the 
viaduct.  Remember  it,  Dan,  and  don't  spare  him! 
Swamp  him!  Swamp  him!* 
[With  great  energy  of  hate. 

dan.     Father 

sir  Stephen.  Bring  your  chair  up.  I  must  go  on  now  — 
while  it's  all  before  me!  I  want  you  to  carry  this  Milford 
Haven  scheme  out!  I  want  it  to  be  said  that  what  old 
Stephen  Famariss  couldn't  do,  young  Dan  Famariss  could ! 
The  father  was  a  great  man,  the  son  shall  be  a  greater,  eh? 
*  1  Kings,  chap,  ii.,  verses  8,  9. 


THE   GOAL  G7 


Look  here,  you  must  start  on  this  side.  I've  had  all  the 
soundings  made 

dan.     To-morrow,  father;  to-morrow! 

sir  Stephen.  No,  now!  There's  no  such  thing  as  to- 
morrow!    We'll  go  through  it  now  —  in  case There's 

a  great  world-tussle  coming,  Dan  —  I  shan't  live  to  see  it  — 
but  it's  coming,  and  the  engineer  that  ties  England  and 
America  will  do  a  good  turn  to  both  countries.  England  to 
America  in  four  days!  I  want  that  crown  to  rest  on  your 
head !     Look !     You  must  begin  here !     Look !     Just  there ! 

You  must  throw  a  bridge  over 

[Stops  suddenly,  puts  his  hand  to  his  heart;  his  face  indicates 
intense  agony.    Nurse  enters  from  bedroom. 

dan.     Father 

sir  Stephen  (persisting,  with  a  wild  aimless  gesture).  Throw 
a  bridge  from  here  —  to  the  other  side,  and  then 

dan.     Father,  what  is  it? 

sir  Stephen.  The  end,  Dan.  (His  face  shows  that  he  is 
suffering  great  pain.  A  great  burst  of  dance  music.  They 
offer  to  support  him.  He  waves  them  off)  No,  thank  you. 
I'll  die  standing.  England  to  America  in  four  days. 
(Long  pause.  He  stands  bolt  upright  with  great  determina- 
tion) You  were  wrong  about  those  girders,  Dan  —  My 
Peggie  —  I   wonder  if  it's  all  moonshine  —  Peggie  —  My 

Peggie 

[Dies,  tumbles  over  table.  Music  and  dancing  in  ballroom 
louder  than  ever. 

CURTAIN. 


SALOME 

OSCAR  WILDE 

Oscar  Wilde  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1854.  His  early- 
education  was  received  in  his  native  country;  after  three 
years  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  he  completed  his  academic 
course  at  Oxford.  While  still  at  Oxford  his  reputation  as  a 
wit  and  an  "esthete"  had  begun  to  spread,  and  when  in 
1881  he  published  his  first  book,  a  volume  of  poems,  he  was 
already  famous.  His  first  play,  "Vera,  or  the  Nihilists", 
appeared  two  years  afterward.  "The  Duchess  of  Padua",  a 
verse  tragedy,  followed  in  1891.  In  1884  Wilde  married,  and 
devoted  his  time  entirely  to  writing,  editorial  work,  and  lec- 
turing. The  important  plays  —  "  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  ", 
"A  Woman  of  No  Importance",  "An  Ideal  Husband",  and 
"The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest"  —  were  performed  in 
London  during  the  height  of  the  author's  brilliant  career, 
between  1892  and  1895.  That  career  was  cut  short  in  1895 
when  Wilde  was  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment  at 
hard  labor  following  a  trial  that  roused  the  entire  civilized 
world.  On  leaving  prison  Wilde  adopted  the  name  of 
Sebastian  Melmoth  and  went  to  France;  there  and  at  Naples 
he  dragged  out  the  few  remaining  years  of  his  life.  He  died 
in  Paris  in  1900. 

In  his  "De  Profundis"  Wilde  said:  "I  took  the  drama,  the 
most  objective  form  known  to  art,  and  made  of  it  as  personal 
a  mode  of  expression  as  the  lyric  or  the  sonnet;  at  the  same 
time  I  widened  its  range  and  enriched  its  characterization." 
This  refers  particularly  to  the  modern  plays.  "Salome", 
originally  written  in  French  for  production  by  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt, is  rather  a  decorative  panel  than  the  expression  of  a 
dramatic  idea;  it  is,  however,  a  distinctly  personal  expression 
of  a  mood;  but  about  all,  it  is  an  effective  drama. 


70  SALOME 


PLAYS 

Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 

Vera,  or  the  Nihilists  (1883)  An  Ideal  Husband  (1895) 

The  Duchess  of  Padua  (1891)  The    Importance   of   Being 
Lady  Windermere's  Fan  Earnest  (1895) 

(1892)  *Salome  (1896) 
A  Woman  of  No  Importance 

(1893) 

All  of  Wilde's  finished  plays  are  published  in  a  single 
volume,  "The  Plays  of  Oscar  Wilde",  by  H.  S.  Nichols,  New 
York. 

References:  Leonard  Cresswell  Ingleby,  "Oscar  Wilde", 
T.  Werner  Laurie,  London;  Arthur  Ransome,  "Oscar  Wilde", 
Mitchell  Kennerly,  New  York;  Robert  Sherrard,  "The  Real 
Oscar  Wilde",  Greening  and  Company,  London;  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas,  "Oscar  Wilde  and  Myself",  John  Lane,  New  York; 
Anna,  Comtesse  de  Bremont,  "Oscar  Wilde  and  his  Mother", 
Everett  and  Company,  London;  W.  W.  Kenilworth,  "A 
Study  of  Oscar  Wilde",  Fenno,  London;  Archibald  Hender- 
son, "European  Dramatists",  Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cincinnati. 

Magazines:  Current  Literature,  vol.  xxxxix,  156,  vol.  xli, 
518,  vol.  xliv,  287,  New  York;  Arena,  vol.  xxxviii,  p.  134, 
New  York;  Dial,  vol.  xlviii,  p.  261,  New  York;  Bookman, 
vol.  xxxiv,  p.  389,  New  York;  Nation,  vol.  xcviii,  pp.  566  and 
598,  and  vol.  xcix,  p.  374,  New  York. 


SALOME 
BY  OSCAR  WILDE 


tt 


Salome'  was  first  produced  at  Paris,  in  1896. 

Characters 

Herod  Antipas,  Tetrarch  of  Judaea 

Iokanaan,  the  Prophet 

The  Young  Syrian,  Captain  of  the  Guard 

Tigellinus,  a  Young  Roman 

A  Cappadocian 

A  Nubian 

First  Soldier 

Second  Soldier 

The  Page  of  Herodias 

Jews,  Nazarenes,  etc. 

A  Slave 

Naaman,  the  Executioner 

Herodias,  Wife  of  the  Tetrarch 

Salome,  Daughter  of  Herodias 

The  Slaves  of  Salome 


SALOME 

Scene.  A  great  terrace  in  the  Palace  of  Herod,  set  above  the 
banqueting-hall.  Some  soldiers  are  leaning  over  the  balcony. 
To  the  right  there  is  a  gigantic  staircase,  to  the  left,  at  the  back, 
an  old  cistern  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  green  bronze.  The  moon 
is  shining  very  brightly. 
the  young  sykian.     How  beautiful  is  the  Princess  Salome 

to-night ! 
the  page  of  herodias.     Look  at  the  moon.     How  strange 
■    the  moon  seems !     She  is  like  a  woman  rising  from  a  tomb. 

She  is  like  a  dead  woman.     One  might  fancy  she  was 

looking  for  dead  things. 
the  young  Syrian.     She  has  a  strange  look.     She  is  like 

a  little  princess  who  wears  a  yellow  veil,  and  whose  feet 

are  of  silver.     She  is  like  a  princess  who  has  little  white 

doves  for  feet.     One  might  fancy  she  was  dancing. 
the  page  of  herodias.     She  is  like  a  woman  who  is  dead. 

She  moves  very  slowly. 

[Noise  in  the  banqueting-hall. 
first   soldier.     What   an   uproar!     Who   are  those   wild 

beasts  howling? 
second  soldier.     The  Jews.     They  are  always  like  that. 

They  are  disputing  about  their  religion. 
first  soldier.     Why  do  they  dispute  about  their  religion? 
second  soldier.     I  cannot  tell.     They  are  always  doing  it. 

The  Pharisees,  for  instance,  say  that  there  are  angels,  and 

the  Sadducees  declare  that  angels  do  not  exist. 
first  soldier.     I  think  it  is  ridiculous  to  dispute  about  such 

things. 
the  young  Syrian.     How  beautiful  is  the  Princess  Salome 

to-night! 


74  SALOME 


the  page  of  herod ias.     You  are  always  looking  at  her. 

You  look  at  her  too  much.     It  is  dangerous  to  look  at 

people  in  such  fashion.     Something  terrible  may  happen. 
the  young  Syrian.     She  is  very  beautiful  to-night. 
first  soldier.     The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  aspect. 
second  soldier.     Yes;  he  has  a  sombre  aspect. 
first  soldier.     He  is  looking  at  something. 
second  soldier.     He  is  looking  at  some  one. 
first  soldier.     At  whom  is  he  looking? 
second  soldier.     I  cannot  tell. 
the  young  Syrian.     How  pale  the  Princess  is !     Never  have 

I  seen  her  so  pale.     She  is  like  the  shadow  of  a  white  rose 

in  a  mirror  of  silver. 
the  page  of  herodias.     You  must  not  look  at  her.     You 

look  too  much  at  her. 
first  soldier.     Herodias  has  filled  the  cup  of  the  Tetrarch. 
the  cappadocian.     Is  that  the  Queen  Herodias,  she  who 

wears  a  black  mitre  sewed  with  pearls,  and  whose  hair  is 

powdered  with  blue  dust? 
first  soldier.     Yes;  that  is  Herodias,  the  Tetrarch's  wife. 
second  soldier.     The  Tetrarch  is  very  fond  of  wine.     He 

has  wine  of  three  sorts.     One  which  is  brought  from  the 

Island  of  Samothrace,  and  is  purple  like  the  cloak  of  Caesar. 
the  cappadocian.     I  have  never  seen  Csesar. 
second  soldier.     Another  that  comes  from  a  town  called 

Cyprus,  and  is  as  yellow  as  gold. 
the  cappadocian.     I  love  gold. 
second  soldier.     And  the  third  is  a  wine  of  Sicily.     That 

wine  is  as  red  as  blood. 
the  Nubian.     The  gods  of  my  country  are  very  fond  of 

blood.     Twice  in  the  year  we  sacrifice  to  them  young  men 

and  maidens;  fifty  young  men  and  a  hundred  maidens. 

But  I  am  afraid  that  we  never  give  them  quite  enough,  for 

they  are  very  harsh  to  us. 
the  cappadocian.     In  my  country  there  are  no  gods  left. 

The  Romans  have  driven  them  out.     There  are  some  who 

say  that  they  have  hidden  themselves  in  the  mountains, 


SALOME  75 


but  I  do  not  believe  it.     Three  nights  I  have  been  on  the 
mountains  seeking  them  everywhere.     I  did  not  find  them, 
and  at  last  I  called  them  by  their  names,  and  they  did  not 
come.     I  think  they  are  dead. 
first  soldier.     The  Jews  worship  a  God  that  one  cannot 

the  cappadocian.     I  cannot  understand  that. 

first  soldier.  In  fact,  they  only  believe  in  things  that  one 
cannot  see. 

the  cappadocian-.     That  seems  to  me  altogether  ridiculous. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  After  me  shall  come  another 
mightier  than  I.  I  am  not  worthy  so  much  as  to  unloose 
the  latchet  of  his  shoes.  When  he  cometh  the  solitary 
places  shall  be  glad.  They  shall  blossom  like  the  rose. 
The  eyes  of  the  blind  shall  see  the  day,  and  the  ears  of  the 
deaf  shall  be  opened.  The  sucking  child  shall  put  his  hand 
upon  the  dragon's  lair,  he  shall  lead  the  lions  by  their 
manes. 

second  soldier.  Make  him  be  silent.  He  is  always  say- 
ing ridiculous  things. 

first  soldier.  No,  no.  He  is  a  holy  man.  He  is  very 
gentle,  too.  Every  day  when  I  give  him  to  eat  he  thanks 
me. 

the  cappadocian.     Who  is  he? 

first  soldier.     A  prophet. 

the  cappadocian.     What  is  his  name? 

first  soldier.     Iokanaan. 

the  cappadocian.     Whence  comes  he? 

first  soldier.  From  the  desert,  where  he  fed  on  locusts 
and  wild  honey.  He  was  clothed  in  camel's  hair,  and 
round  his  loins  he  had  a  leathern  belt.  He  was  very  ter- 
rible to  look  upon.  A  great  multitude  used  to  follow  him. 
He  even  had  disciples. 

the  cappadocian.     What  is  he  talking  of? 

first  soldier.  We  can  never  tell.  Sometimes  he  says 
things  that  affright  one,  but  it  is  impossible  to  understand 
what  he  says. 


76  SALOME 


the  cappadocian.     May  one  see  him? 

first  soldier.     No.     The  Tetrarch  has  forbidden  it. 

the  young  Syrian.  The  Princess  has  hidden  her  face  be- 
hind her  fan!  Her  little  white  hands  are  fluttering  like 
doves  that  fly  to  their  dove-cots.  They  are  like  white 
butterflies.     They  are  just  like  white  butterflies. 

the  page  of  herodias.  What  is  that  to  you?  Why  do  you 
look  at  her?  You  must  not  look  at  her.  Something  ter- 
rible may  happen. 

the  cappadocian  (pointing  to  the  cistern).  What  a  strange 
prison ! 

second  soldier.     It  is  an  old  cistern. 

the  cappadocian.  An  old  cistern!  That  must  be  a  poison- 
ous place  in  which  to  dwell! 

second  soldier.  Oh,  no!  For  instance,  the  Tetrarch's 
brother,  his  elder  brother,  the  first  husband  of  Herodias, 
the  Queen,  was  imprisoned  there  for  twelve  years.  It  did 
not  kill  him.  At  the  end  of  the  twelve  years  he  had  to  be 
strangled. 

the  cappadocian.     Strangled?     Who  dared  to  do  that? 

second  soldier  (pointing  to  the  executioner,  a  huge  negro). 
That  man  yonder,  Naaman. 

the  cappadocian.     He  was  not  afraid? 

second  soldier.    Oh,  no!    The  Tetrarch  sent  him  the  ring. 

the  cappadocian.     What  ring? 

second  soldier.     The  death  ring.     So  he  was  not  afraid. 

the  cappadocian.  Yet  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  strangle  a 
king. 

first  soldier.  Why?  Kings  have  but  one  neck,  like  other 
folk. 

the  cappadocian.     I  think  it  terrible. 

the  young  Syrian.  The  Princess  is  getting  up!  She  is 
leaving  the  table!  She  looks  very  troubled.  Ah,  she  is 
coming  this  way.  Yes,  she  is  coming  towards  us.  How 
pale  she  is !     Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 

the  page  of  herodias.  Do  not  look  at  her.  I  pray  you 
not  to  look  at  her. 


SALOME  77 


the  young  Syrian.     She  is  like  a  dove  that  has  strayed.  She 
is  like  a  narcissus  trembling  in  the  wind.     She  is  like  a 
silver  flower. 
[Enter  Salome. 

salome.  I  will  not  stay.  I  cannot  stay.  Why  does  the 
Tetrarch  look  at  me  all  the  while  with  his  mole's  eyes 
under  his  shaking  eyelids?  It  is  strange  that  the  husband 
of  my  mother  looks  at  me  like  that.  I  know  not  what  it 
means.     Of  a  truth,  I  know  it  too  well. 

the  young  Syrian.     You  have  left  the  feast,  Princess? 

salome.  How  sweet  is  the  air  here!  I  can  breathe  here! 
Within  there  are  Jews  from  Jerusalem  who  are  tearing  each 
other  in  pieces  over  their  foolish  ceremonies,  and  barbarians 
who  drink  and  drink,  and  spill  their  wine  on  the  pavement, 
and  Greeks  from  Smyrna  with  painted  eyes  and  painted 
cheeks,  and  frizzed  hair  curled  in  columns,  and  Egyptians 
silent  and  subtle,  with  long  nails  of  jade  and  russet  cloaks, 
and  Romans  brutal  and  coarse,  with  their  uncouth  jargon. 
Ah !  how  I  loathe  the  Romans !  They  are  rough  and  com- 
mon, and  they  give  themselves  the  airs  of  noble  lords. 

the  young  Syrian.     Will  you  be  seated,  Princess? 

the  page  of  herodias.  Why  do  you  speak  to  her?  Oh! 
something  terrible  will  happen.     Why  do  you  look  at  her? 

salome.  How  good  to  see  the  moon!  She  is  like  a  little 
piece  of  money,  a  little  silver  flower.  She  is  cold  and 
chaste.  I  am  sure  she  is  a  virgin.  She  has  the  beauty  of 
a  virgin.  Yes,  she  is  a  virgin.  She  has  never  defiled  her- 
self. She  has  never  abandoned  herself  to  men,  like  the 
other  goddesses. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  Behold !  the  Lord  hath  come.  The 
Son  of  Man  is  at  hand.  The  centaurs  have  hidden  them- 
selves in  the  rivers,  and  the  nymphs  have  left  the  rivers, 
and  are  lying  beneath  the  leaves  in  the  forests. 

salome.     Who  was  that  who  cried  out? 

second  soldier.     The  prophet,  Princess. 

salome.  Ah,  the  prophet!  He  of  whom  the  Tetrarch  is 
afraid? 


78  SALOME 


second  soldier.     We  know  nothing  of  that,  Princess.     It 

was  the  prophet  Iokanaan  who  cried  out. 
the  young  soldier.     Is  it  your  pleasure  that  I  bid  them 

bring   your   litter,  Princess?      The   night   is   fair   in  the 

garden. 
salome.     He  says  terrible  things  about  my  mother,  does  he 

not? 
second    soldier.     We   never    understand    what    he   says, 

Princess. 
salome.     Yes;  he  says  terrible  things  about  her. 

[Enter  a  slave. 
the  slave.     Princess,  the  Tetrarch  prays  you  to  return  to 

the  feast. 
salome.     I  will  not  return. 
the  young  Syrian.     Pardon  me,  Princess,  but  if  you  return 

not  some  misfortune  may  happen. 
salome.     Is  he  an  old  man,  this  prophet? 
the  young  syrian.     Princess,  it  were  better  to  return.  Suffer 

me  to  lead  you  in. 
salome.     This  prophet,  is  he  an  old  man? 
first  soldier.     No,  Princess,  he  is  quite  young. 
second  soldier.     One  cannot  be  sure.     There  are  those  who 

say  that  he  is  Elias. 
salome.     Who  is  Elias? 
second  soldier.     A  prophet  of  this  country  in  bygone  days, 

Princess. 
the  slave.     What  answer  may  I  give  the  Tetrarch  from 

the  Princess? 
the  voice  of  iokanaan.     Rejoice  not,  O  land  of  Palestine, 

because  the  rod  of  him  who  smote  thee  is  broken.     For 

from  the  seed  of  the  serpent  shall  come  a  basilisk,  and  that 

which  is  born  of  it  shall  devour  the  birds. 
salome.     What  a  strange  voice!     I  would  speak  with  him. 
first  soldier.     I  fear  it  may  not  be,  Princess.    The  Tet- 
rarch does  not  suffer  any  one  to  speak  with  him.     He  has 

even  forbidden  the  high  priest  to  speak  with  him. 
salome.     I  desire  to  speak  with  him. 


SALOME  79 


first  soldier.     It  is  impossible,  Princess. 

salome.     I  will  speak  with  him. 

the  young  SYRIAN.     Would  it  not  be  better  to  return  to  the 

banquet? 
salome.     Bring  forth  this  prophet. 

[Exit  the  slave. 
first  soldier.     We  dare  not,  Princess. 
salome  (approaching  the  cistern  and  looking  down  into  it). 

How  black  it  is  down  there!     It  must  be  terrible  to  be  in 

so  black  a  hole !     It  is  like  a  tomb.     (To  the  soldiers)     Did 

you  not  hear  me?     Bring  out  the  prophet.     I  would  look 

on  him. 
second  soldier.     Princess,  I  beg  you,  do  not  require  this 

of  us. 
salome.     You  are  making  me  wait  upon  your  pleasure. 
first  soldier.     Princess,  our  lives  belong  to  you,  but  we 

cannot  do  what  you  have  asked  of  us.     And  indeed,  it  is 

not  of  us  that  you  should  ask  this  thing. 
salome  (looking  at  the  young  Syrian).  Ah! 
the  page  of  herodias.     Oh,  what  is  going  to  happen?  I  am 

sure  that  something  terrible  will  happen. 
salome  (going  up  to  the  young  Syrian).     Thou  wilt  do  this 

thing  for  me,  wilt  thou  not,  Narraboth?     Thou  wilt  do 

this  thing  for  me.     I  have  ever  been  kind  towards  thee. 

Thou  wilt  do  it  for  me.     I  would  but  look  at  him,  this 

strange   prophet.     Men   have   talked    so   much   of   him. 

Often  I  have  heard  the  Tetrarch  talk  of  him.     I  think  he 

is  afraid  of  him,  the  Tetrarch.     Art  thou,  even  thou,  also 

afraid  of  him,  Narraboth? 
the  young  Syrian.     I  fear  him  not,  Princess;  there  is  no 

man  I  fear.     But  the  Tetrarch  has  formally  forbidden  that 

any  man  should  raise  the  cover  of  this  well. 
salome.     Thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me,  Narraboth,  and 

to-morrow  when  I  pass  in  my  litter  beneath  the  gateway 

of  the  idol-sellers,  I  will  let  fall  for  thee  a  little  flower,  a 

little  green  flower. 
the  young  Syrian.     Princess,  I  cannot,  I  cannot. 


80  SALOME 


salome  (smiling).  Thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me,  Narra- 
both.  Thou  knowest  that  thou  wilt  do  this  thing  for  me. 
And  on  the  morrow  when  I  shall  pass  in  my  litter  by  the 
bridge  of  the  idol-buyers,  I  will  look  at  thee  through  the 
muslin  veils;  I  will  look  at  thee,  Narraboth;  it  may  be  I 
will  smile  at  thee.  Look  at  me,  Narraboth;  look  at  me. 
Ah!  thou  knowest  that  thou  wilt  do  what  I  ask  of  thee. 
Thou  knowest  it.     I  know  that  thou  wilt  do  this  thing. 

the  young  syeian  (signing  to  the  third  soldier).  Let  the 
prophet  come  forth.  The  Princess  Salome  desires  to  see 
him. 

SALOME.      Ah ! 

the  page  of  herodias.  Oh!  How  strange  the  moon  looks! 
Like  the  hand  of  a  dead  woman  who  is  seeking  to  cover 
herself  with  a  shroud. 

the  young  syrian.     She  has  a  strange  aspect!     She  is  like 
a  little  Princess,  whose  eyes  are  eyes  of  amber.     Through 
the  clouds  of  muslin  she  is  smiling  like  a  little  Princess. 
[The  prophet  comes  out  of  the  cistern.     Salome  looks  at  him 
and  steps  slowly  back. 

iokanaan.  Where  is  he  whose  cup  of  abominations  is  now 
full?  Where  is  he,  who  in  a  robe  of  silver  shall  one  day 
die  in  the  face  of  all  the  people?  Bid  him  come  forth,  that 
he  may  hear  the  voice  of  him  who  hath  cried  in  the  waste 
places  and  in  the  houses  of  kings. 

salome.     Of  whom  is  he  speaking? 

the  young  Syrian.     No  one  can  tell,  Princess. 

iokanaan.  Where  is  she  who  saw  the  images  of  men 
painted  on  the  walls,  even  the  images  of  the  Chaldseans 
painted  with  colors,  and  gave  herself  up  unto  the  lust  of 
her  eyes,  and  sent  ambassadors  into  the  land  of  the 
Chaldseans? 

salome.     It  is  of  my  mother  that  he  is  speaking. 

the  young  syrian.     Oh,  no,  Princess. 

salome.     Yes;  it  is  of  my  mother  that  he  is  speaking. 

iokanaan.  Where  is  she  who  gave  herself  unto  the  Captains 
of  Assyria,  who  have  baldricks  on  their  loins,  and  crowns 


SALOME  81 


of  many  colors  on  their  heads?  Where  is  she  who  hath 
given  herself  to  the  young  men  of  the  Egyptians,  who  are 
clothed  in  fine  linen  and  hyacinth,  whose  shields  are  of 
gold,  whose  helmets  are  of  silver,  whose  bodies  are  mighty? 
Go,  bid  her  rise  up  from  the  bed  of  her  abominations,  from 
the  bed  of  her  incestuousness,  that  she  may  hear  the  words 
of  him  who  prepareth  the  way  of  the  Lord,  that  she  may 
repent  of  her  iniquities.  Though  she  will  not  repent,  but 
will  stick  fast  in  her  abominations,  go  bid  her  come,  for 
the  fan  of  the  Lord  is  in  His  hand. 

salome.     Ah,  but  he  is  terrible,  he  is  terrible! 

the  young  Syrian.  Do  not  stay  here,  Princess,  I  beseech 
you. 

salome.  It  is  his  eyes  above  all  that  are  terrible.  They  are 
like  black  holes  burned  by  torches  in  the  tapestry  of  Tyre. 
They  are  like  the  black  cavern  where  the  dragons  live,  the 
black  caverns  of  Egypt,  in  which  the  dragons  make  their 
lairs.  They  are  like  black  lakes  troubled  by  fantastic 
moons.     Do  you  think  he  will  speak  again? 

the  young  syrian.  Do  not  stay  here,  Princess.  I  pray 
you  do  not  stay  here. 

salome.  How  wasted  he  is!  He  is  like  a  thin  ivory  statue. 
He  is  like  an  image  of  silver.  I  am  sure  he  is  chaste,  as 
the  moon  is.  He  is  like  a  moonbeam,  like  a  shaft  of  silver. 
His  flesh  must  be  very  cold,  cold  as  ivory.  I  would  look 
closer  at  him. 

the  young  syrian.     No,  no,  Princess! 

salome.     I  must  look  at  him  closer. 

the  young  syrian.     Princess!     Princess! 

iokanaan.  Who  is  this  woman  who  is  looking  at  me?  I 
will  not  have  her  look  at  me.  Wherefore  doth  she  look  at 
me  with  her  golden  eyes,  under  her  gilded  eyelids?  I 
know  not  who  she  is.  I  do  not  desire  to  know  who  she 
is.  Bid  her  begone.  It  is  not  to  hear  her  that  I  would 
speak. 

salome.  I  am  Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias,  Princess  of 
Judsea. 


82  SALOME 


iokanaan.  Back!  daughter  of  Babylon!  Come  not  near 
the  chosen  of  the  Lord.  Thy  mother  hath  filled  the  earth 
with  the  wine  of  her  iniquities,  and  the  cry  of  her  sinning 
hath  come  up  even  to  the  ears  of  God. 

salome.  Speak  again,  Iokanaan.  Thy  voice  is  as  music  to 
mine  ear. 

the  young  Syrian.     Princess!     Princess!     Princess! 

salome.  Speak  again !  Speak  again,  Iokanaan,  and  tell  me 
what  I  must  do. 

iokanaan.  Daughter  of  Sodom,  come  not  near  me!  But 
cover  thy  face  with  a  veil,  and  scatter  ashes  upon  thine 
head,  and  get  thee  to  the  desert,  and  seek  out  the  Son  of 
Man. 

salome.  Who  is  he,  the  Son  of  Man?  Is  he  as  beautiful  as 
thou  art,  Iokanaan? 

iokanaan.  Get  thee  behind  me!  I  hear  in  the  palace  the 
beating  of  the  wings  of  the  angel  of  death. 

the  young  Syrian.     Princess,  I  beseech  thee  to  go  within. 

iokanaan.  Angel  of  the  Lord  God,  what  dost  thou  here 
with  thy  sword?  Whom  seekest  thou  in  the  palace?  The 
day  of  him  who  shall  die  in  a  robe  of  silver  has  not  yet  come. 

salome.     Iokanaan ! 

iokanaan.     Who  speaketh? 

salome.  I  am  amorous  of  thy  body,  Iokanaan!  Thy  body 
is  white,  like  the  lilies  of  the  field  that  the  mower  hath 
never  mowed.  Thy  body  is  white  like  the  snows  that  lie 
on  the  mountains  of  Judsea,  and  come  down  into  the  val- 
leys. The  roses  in  the  gardens  of  the  Queen  of  Arabia  are 
not  so  white  as  thy  body.  Neither  the  roses  in  the  garden 
of  the  Queen  of  Arabia,  the  garden  of  spices  of  the  Queen 
of  Arabia,  nor  the  feet  of  the  dawn  when  they  light  on  the 
leaves,  nor  the  breast  of  the  moon  when  she  lies  on  the 
breast  of  the  sea.  There  is  nothing  in  this  world  so  white 
as  thy  body.     Suffer  me  to  touch  thy  body. 

iokanaan.  Back!  daughter  of  Babylon!  By  woman  came 
evil  into  the  world.  Speak  not  to  me.  I  will  not  listen 
to  thee.     I  listen  but  to  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God. 


SALOME  83 


salome.  Thy  body  is  hideous.  It  is  like  the  body  of  a 
leper.  It  is  like  a  plastered  wall,  where  vipers  have 
crawled;  like  a  plastered  wall  where  the  scorpions  have 
made  their  nest.  It  is  like  a  whited  sepulchre,  full  of 
loathsome  things.  It  is  horrible;  thy  body  is  horrible.  It 
is  of  thy  hair  I  am  enamoured,  Iokanaan.  Thy  hair  is 
like  clusters  of  grapes,  like  the  clusters  of  black  grapes 
that  hang  from  the  vine-trees  of  Edom  in  the  land  of  the 
Edomites.  Thy  hair  is  like  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  like 
the  great  cedars  of  Lebanon  that  give  their  shade  to  the 
lions  and  to  the  robbers  who  would  hide  them  by  day. 
The  long  black  nights,  when  the  moon  hides  her  face,  when 
the  stars  are  afraid,  are  not  so  black  as  thy  hair.  The 
silence  that  dwells  in  the  forest  is  not  so  black.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  that  is  so  black  as  thy  hair.  Suffer 
me  to  touch  thy  hair. 

iokanaan.  Back,  daughter  of  Sodom!  Touch  me  not. 
Profane  not  the  temple  of  the  Lord  God. 

salome.  Thy  hair  is  horrible.  It  is  covered  with  mire  and 
dust.  It  is  like  a  crown  of  thorns  placed  on  thy  head. 
It  is  like  a  knot  of  serpents  coiled  round  thy  neck.  I  love 
not  thy  hair.  It  is  thy  mouth  that  I  desire,  Iokanaan. 
Thy  mouth  is  like  a  band  of  scarlet  on  a  tower  of  ivory. 
It  is  like  a  pomegranate  cut  in  twain  with  a  knife  of  ivory. 
The  pomegranate  flowers  that  blossom  in  the  gardens  of 
Tyre,  and  are  redder  than  roses,  are  not  so  red.  The  red 
blasts  of  trumpets  that  herald  the  approach  of  kings,  and 
make  afraid  the  enemy,  are  not  so  red.  Thy  mouth  is 
redder  than  the  feet  of  those  who  tread  the  wine  in  the 
wine-press.  It  is  redder  than  the  feet  of  the  doves  who 
inhabit  the  temples  and  are  fed  by  the  priests.  It  is  redder 
than  the  feet  of  him  who  cometh  from  a  forest  where  he 
hath  slain  a  lion,  and  seen  gilded  tigers.  Thy  mouth  is 
like  a  branch  of  coral  that  fishers  have  found  in  the  twilight 
of  the  sea,  the  coral  that  they  keep  for  the  kings!  It  is 
like  the  vermilion  that  the  Moabites  find  in  the  mines  of 
Moab,  the  vermilion  that  the  kings  take  from  them.     It 


84  SALOME 


is  like  the  bow  of  the  King  of  the  Persians,  that  is  tinted 
with  vermilion,  and  is  tipped  with  coral.  There  is  nothing 
in  the  world  so  red  as  thy  mouth.  Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy 
mouth. 

iokanaan.  Never!  daughter  of  Babylon!  Daughter  of 
Sodom!  never! 

salome.  I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan.  I  will  kiss  thy 
mouth. 

the  young  Syrian.  Princess,  Princess,  thou  who  art  like  a 
garden  of  myrrh,  thou  who  art  the  dove  of  all  doves,  look 
not  at  this  man,  look  not  at  him !  Do  not  speak  such  words 
to  him.  I  cannot  endure  it.  Princess,  do  not  speak  these 
things. 

salome.     I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan. 

THE  YOUNG  SYRIAN.      Ah! 

[He  kills  himself,  and  falls  between  Salome  and  Iokanaan. 

the  page  of  herodias.  The  young  Syrian  has  slain  him- 
self! The  young  captain  has  slain  himself!  He  has  slain 
himself  who  was  my  friend!  I  gave  him  a  little  box  of 
perfumes  and  ear-rings  wrought  in  silver,  and  now  he  has 
killed  himself!  Ah,  did  he  not  say  that  some  misfortune 
would  happen?  I,  too,  said  it,  and  it  has  come  to  pass. 
Well  I  knew  that  the  moon  was  seeking  a  dead  thing,  but 
I  knew  not  that  it  was  he  whom  she  sought.  Ah !  why  did 
I  not  hide  him  from  the  moon?  If  I  had  hidden  him  in  a 
cavern  she  would  not  have  seen  him. 

first  soldier.  Princess,  the  young  captain  has  just  slain 
himself. 

salome.     Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan. 

iokanaan.  Art  thou  not  afraid,  daughter  of  Herodias? 
Did  I  not  tell  thee  that  I  heard  in  the  palace  the  beating 
of  the  wings  of  the  angel  of  death,  and  hath  he  not  come, 
the  angel  of  death? 

salome.     Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth. 

iokanaan.  Daughter  of  adultery,  there  is  but  one  who  can 
save  thee.  It  is  He  of  whom  I  spake.  Go  seek  Him.  He 
is  in  a  boat  on  the  sea  of  Galilee,  and  He  talketh  with  His 


SALOME  85 


disciples.  Kneel  down  on  the  shore  of  the  sea,  and  call 
unto  Him  by  His  name.  When  He  cometh  to  thee,  and 
to  all  who  call  on  Him  He  cometh,  bow  thyself  at  His  feet 
and  ask  of  Him  the  remission  of  thy  sins. 

salome.     Suffer  me  to  kiss  thy  mouth. 

iokanaan.  Cursed  be  thou!  Daughter  of  an  incestuous 
mother,  be  thou  accursed ! 

salome.     I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan. 

iokanaan.     I  will  not  look  at  thee.     Thou  art  accursed, 
Salome;  thou  art  accursed. 
[He  goes  down  into  the  cistern. 

salome.  I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan.  I  will  kiss  thy 
mouth. 

first  soldier.  We  must  bear  away  the  body  to  another 
place.  The  Tetrarch  does  not  care  to  see  dead  bodies, 
save  the  bodies  of  those  whom  he  himself  has  slain. 

the  page  of  herodias.  He  was  my  brother,  and  nearer  to 
me  than  a  brother.  I  gave  him  a  little  box  of  perfumes, 
and  a  ring  of  agate  that  he  wore  always  on  his  hand.  In 
the  evening  we  were  wont  to  walk  by  the  river,  and  among 
the  almond-trees,  and  he  used  to  tell  me  of  the  things 
of  his  country.  He  spake  ever  very  low.  The  sound 
of  his  voice  was  like  the  sound  of  the  flute,  of  one  who 
playeth  upon  the  flute.  Also  he  had  much  joy  to  gaze 
at  himself  in  the  river.  I  used  to  reproach  him  for 
that. 

second  soldier.  You  are  right;  we  must  hide  the  body. 
The  Tetrarch  must  not  see  it. 

first  soldier.     The  Tetrarch  will  not  come  to  this  place. 
He  never  comes  on  the  terrace.     He  is  too  much  afraid  of 
the  prophet. 
[Enter  Herod,  Herodias,  and  all  the  Court. 

herod.  Where  is  Salome?  Where  is  the  Princess?  Why 
did  she  not  return  to  the  banquet  as  I  commanded  her? 
Ah!  there  she  is! 

herodias.  You  must  not  look  at  her!  You  are  always 
looking  at  her! 


86  SALOME 


herod.  The  moon  has  a  strange  look  to-night.  Has  she  not 
a  strange  look?  She  is  like  a  mad  woman,  and  a  mad 
woman  who  is  seeking  everywhere  for  lovers.  She  is 
naked,  too.  She  is  quite  naked.  The  clouds  are  seeking 
to  clothe  her  nakedness,  but  she  will  not  let  them.  She 
shows  herself  naked  in  the  sky.  She  reels  through  the 
clouds  like  a  drunken  woman.  I  am  sure  she  is  looking 
for  lovers.  Does  she  not  reel  like  a  drunken  woman?  She 
is  like  a  mad  woman,  is  she  not? 

herodias.  No;  the  moon  is  like  the  moon,  that  is  all.  Let 
us  go  within.     We  have  nothing  to  do  here. 

herod.  I  will  stay  here!  Manasseh,  lay  carpets  there. 
Light  torches.  Bring  forth  the  ivory  tables,  and  the 
tables  of  jasper.  The  air  here  is  sweet.  I  will  drink  more 
wine  with  my  guests.  We  must  show  all  honor  to  the 
ambassadors  of  Caesar. 

herodias.     It  is  not  because  of  them  that  you  remain. 

herod.  Yes;  the  air  is  very  sweet.  Come,  Herodias,  our 
guests  await  us.  Ah!  I  have  slipped!  I  have  slipped  in 
blood!  It  is  an  ill  omen.  It  is  a  very  ill  omen.  Wherefore 
is  there  blood  here?  And  this  body,  what  does  this  body 
here?  Think  you  I  am  like  the  King  of  Egypt,  who  gives 
no  feast  to  his  guests  but  that  he  shows  them  a  corpse? 
Whose  is  it?     I  will  not  look  on  it. 

first  soldier.  It  is  our  captain,  sire.  It  is  the  young 
Syrian  whom  you  made  captain  of  the  guard  but  three 
days  gone. 

herod.     I  issued  no  order  that  he  should  be  slain. 

second  soldier.     He  slew  himself,  sire. 

herod.  For  what  reason?  I  had  made  him  captain  of  my 
guard ! 

second  soldier.  We  do  not  know,  sire.  But  with  his  own 
hand  he  slew  himself. 

herod.  That  seems  strange  to  me.  I  had  thought  it  was 
but  the  Roman  philosophers  who  slew  themselves.  Is  it 
not  true,  Tigellinus,  that  the  philosophers  at  Rome  slay 
themselves? 


SALOME  87 


tigellinus.  There  be  some  who  slay  themselves,  sire.  They 
are  the  Stoics.  The  Stoics  are  people  of  no  cultivation. 
They  are  ridiculous  people.  I  myself  regard  them  as 
being  perfectly  ridiculous. 

herod.     I  also.     It  is  ridiculous  to  kill  one's  self. 

tigellinus.  Everybody  at  Rome  laughs  at  them.  The 
Emperor  has  written  a  satire  against  them.  It  is  recited 
everywhere. 

herod.  Ah!  he  has  written  a  satire  against  them?  Csesar 
is  wonderful.  He  can  do  everything.  It  is  strange  that 
the  young  Syrian  has  slain  himself.  I  am  sorry  he  has  slain 
himself.  I  am  very  sorry.  For  he  was  fair  to  look  upon. 
He  was  even  very  fair.  He  had  very  languorous  eyes.  I 
remember  that  I  saw  that  he  looked  languorously  at 
Salome.  Truly,  I  thought  he  looked  too  much  at 
her. 

herodias.     There  are  others  who  look  too  much  at  her. 

herod.  His  father  was  a  king.  I  drove  him  from  his  king- 
dom. And  of  his  mother,  who  was  a  queen,  you  made  a 
slave,  Herodias.  So  he  was  here  as  my  guest,  as  it  were, 
and  for  that  reason  I  made  him  my  captain.  I  am  sorry 
he  is  dead.  Ho!  why  have  you  left  the  body  here?  It 
must  be  taken  to  some  other  place.  I  will  not  look  at 
it,  —  away  with  it!  {They  take  away  the  body)  It  is  cold 
here.  There  is  a  wind  blowing.  Is  there  not  a  wind 
blowing? 

herodias.     No;  there  is  no  wind. 

herod.  I  tell  you  there  is  a  wind  that  blows.  And  I  hear 
in  the  air  something  that  is  like  the  beating  of  wings,  like 
the  beating  of  vast  wings.     Do  you  not  hear  it? 

herodias.     I  hear  nothing. 

herod.  I  hear  it  no  longer.  But  I  heard  it.  It  was  the 
blowing  of  the  wind.  It  has  passed  away.  But  no,  I  hear 
it  again.  Do  you  not  hear  it?  It  is  just  like  a  beating 
of  wings. 

herodias.  I  tell  you  there  is  nothing.  You  are  ill.  Let  us 
go  within. 


88  SALOME 


herod.     I  am  not  ill.     It  is  your  daughter  who  is  sick  to 

death.     Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 
herodias.     I  have  told  you  not  to  look  at  her. 
herod.     Pour  me  forth  wine.     (Wine  is  brought)     Salome, 

come  drink  a  little  wine  with  me.     I  have  here  a  wine  that 

is  exquisite.     Csesar  himself  sent  it  me.     Dip  into  it  thy 

little  red  lips,  that  I  may  drain  the  cup. 
salome.     I  am  not  thirsty,  Tetrarch. 
herod.     You  hear  how  she  answers  me,  this  daughter  of 

yours? 
herodias.     She  does  right.     Why  are  you  always  gazing  at 

her? 
herod.     Bring  me  ripe  fruits.     (Fruits  are  brought)   Salome, 

come  and  eat  fruits  with  me.     I  love  to  see  in  a  fruit  the 

mark  of  thy  little  teeth.     Bite  but  a  little  of  this  fruit,  that 

I  may  eat  what  is  left. 
salome.     I  am  not  hungry,  Tetrarch. 
herod  (to  Herodias).     You  see  how  you  have  brought  up 

this  daughter  of  yours. 
herodias.     My  daughter  and  I  come  of  a  royal  race.     As 

for  thee,  thy  father  was  a  camel  driver!     He  was  a  thief 

and  a  robber  to  boot! 
herod.     Thou  liest! 

herodias.     Thou  knowest  well  that  it  is  true. 
herod.     Salome,  come  and  sit  next  to  me.     I  will  give  thee 

the  throne  of  thy  mother. 
salome.     I  am  not  tired,  Tetrarch. 
herodias.     You  see  in  what  regard  she  holds  you. 
herod.     Bring  me What  is  it  that  I  desire?     I  forget. 

Ah!  ah!   I  remember. 
the  voice  of  iokanaan.    Behold,  the  time  is  come!    That 

which  I  foretold  has  come  to  pass.    The  day  that  I  spake 

of  is  at  hand. 
herodias.     Bid  him  be  silent.     I  will  not  listen  to  his  voice. 

This  man  is  forever  hurling  insults  against  me. 
herod.     He  has  said  nothing  against  you.     Besides,  he  is  a 

very  great  prophet. 


SALOME  89 


herodias.  I  do  not  believe  in  prophets.  Can  a  man  tell 
what  will  come  to  pass?  No  man  knows  it.  Also,  he  is 
forever  insulting  me.  But  I  think  you  are  afraid  of  him. 
I  know  well  that  you  are  afraid  of  him. 

herod.     I  am  not  afraid  of  him.     I  am  afraid  of  no  man. 

herodias.  I  tell  you  you  are  afraid  of  him.  If  you  are  not 
afraid  of  him,  why  do  you  not  deliver  him  to  the  Jews, 
who  for  these  six  months  past  have  been  clamoring  for 
him? 

A  jew.  Truly,  my  lord,  it  were  better  to  deliver  him  into 
our  hands. 

herod.  Enough  on  this  subject.  I  have  already  given  you 
my  answer.  I  will  not  deliver  him  into  your  hands.  He 
is  a  holy  man.     He  is  a  man  who  has  seen  God. 

a  jew.  That  cannot  be.  There  is  no  man  who  hath  seen 
God  since  the  prophet  Elias.  He  is  the  last  man  who  saw 
God  face  to  face.  In  these  days  God  doth  not  show  Him- 
self. God  hideth  Himself.  Therefore  great  evils  have 
come  upon  the  land. 

another  jew.  Verily,  no  man  knoweth  if  Elias  the  prophet 
did  indeed  see  God.  Peradventure  it  was  but  the  shadow 
of  God  that  he  saw. 

a  third  jew.  God  is  at  no  time  hidden.  He  showeth  Him- 
self at  all  times  and  in  all  places.  God  is  in  what  is  evil 
even  as  He  is  in  what  is  good. 

A  fourth  jew.  Thou  shouldst  not  say  that.  It  is  a  very 
dangerous  doctrine.  It  is  a  doctrine  that  cometh  from 
Alexandria,  where  men  teach  the  philosophy  of  the  Greeks. 
And  the  Greeks  are  Gentiles.  They  are  not  even  circum- 
sized. 

a  fifth  jew.  No  man  can  tell  how  God  worketh.  His  ways 
are  very  dark.  It  may  be  that  the  things  which  we  call 
evil  are  good,  and  that  the  things  which  we  call  good  are 
evil.  There  is  no  knowledge  of  anything.  We  can  but 
bow  our  heads  to  His  will,  for  God  is  very  strong.  He 
breaketh  in  pieces  the  strong  together  with  the  weak,  for 
He  regardeth  not  any  man. 


90  SALOME 


first  jew.  Thou  speakest  truly.  Verily,  God  is  terrible. 
He  breaketh  in  pieces  the  strong  and  the  weak  as  men 
break  corn  in  a  mortar.  But  as  for  this  man,  he  hath 
never  seen  God.  No  man  hath  seen  God  since  the  prophet 
Elias. 

herodias.     Make  them  be  silent.    They  weary  me. 

herod.  But  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Iokanaan  is  in  very 
truth  your  prophet  Elias. 

the  jew.  That  cannot  be.  It  is  more  than  three  hundred 
years  since  the  days  of  the  prophet  Elias. 

herod.  There  be  some  who  say  that  this  man  is  Elias  the 
prophet. 

a  nazarene.     I  am  sure  that  he  is  Elias  the  prophet. 

the  jew.     Nay,  but  he  is  not  Elias  the  prophet. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  Behold  the  day  is  at  hand,  the  day 
of  the  Lord,  and  I  hear  upon  the  mountains  the  feet  of 
Him  who  shall  be  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 

herod.     What  does  that  mean?    The  Saviour  of  the  world? 

tigellinus.     It  is  a  title  that  Caesar  adopts. 

herod.  But  Csesar  is  not  coming  into  Judaea.  Only  yes- 
terday I  received  letters  from  Rome.  They  contained 
nothing  concerning  this  matter.  And  you,  Tigellinus,  who 
were  at  Rome  during  the  winter,  you  heard  nothing  con- 
cerning this  matter,  did  you? 

tigellinus.  Sire,  I  heard  nothing  concerning  the  matter. 
I  was  but  explaining  the  title.     It  is  one  of  Caesar's  titles. 

herod.  But  Caesar  cannot  come.  He  is  too  gouty.  They 
say  that  his  feet  are  like  the  feet  of  an  elephant.  Also  there 
are  reasons  of  state.  He  who  leaves  Rome  loses  Rome.  He 
will  not  come.  Howbeit,  Caesar  is  lord,  he  will  come  if  such 
be  his  pleasure.     Nevertheless,  I  think  he  will  not  come. 

first  nazarene.  It  was  not  concerning  Caesar  that  the 
prophet  spake  these  words,  sire. 

herod.     How?  —  it  was  not  concerning  Caesar? 

first  nazarene.     No,  my  lord. 

herod.     Concerning  whom  then  did  he  speak? 

first  nazarene.     Concerning  Messias,  who  hath  come. 


SALOME  91 


a  jew.     Messias  hath  not  come. 

first  nazarene.     He  hath  come,  and  everywhere  He  work- 

eth  miracles! 
herodias.     Ho!  ho!  miracles!    I  do  not  believe  in  miracles. 

I  have  seen  too  many.     (To  the  Page)     My  fan. 
first  nazarene.     This  Man  worketh  true  miracles.     Thus, 

at  a  marriage  which  took  place  in  a  little  town  of  Galilee, 

a  town  of  some  importance,  He  changed  water  into  wine. 

Certain  persons  who  were  present  related  it  to  me.     Also 

He  healed  two  lepers  that  were  seated  before  the  Gate  of 

Capernaum  simply  by  touching  them. 
second  nazarene.     Nay;  it  was  two  blind  men  that  He 

healed  at  Capernaum. 
first  nazarene.     Nay;  they  were  lepers.     But  He  hath 

healed  blind  people  also,  and  He  was  seen  on  a  mountain 

talking  with  angels. 
a  sadducee.     Angels  do  not  exist. 
a  Pharisee.     Angels  exist,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  this 

Man  has  talked  with  them. 
first  nazarene.     He  was  seen  by  a  great  multitude  of 

people  talking  with  angels. 
herodias.     How  these  men  weary  me !     They  are  ridiculous ! 

They  are  altogether  ridiculous!     (To  the  Page)     Well!  my 

fan?     (The  Page  gives  her  the  fan)     You  have  a  dreamer's 

look.     You  must  not  dream.     It  is  only  sick  people  who 

dream. 

[She  strikes  the  Page  with  her  fan. 
second  nazarene.     There  is  also  the  miracle  of  the  daughter 

of  Jairus. 
first  nazarene.     Yea,  that  is  true.     No  man  can  gainsay  it. 
herodias.     Those  men  are  mad.     They  have  looked  too 

long  on  the  moon.     Command  them  to  be  silent. 
herod.     What  is  this  miracle  of  the  daughter  of  Jairus? 
first  nazarene.     The  daughter  of  Jairus  was  dead.      This 

Man  raised  her  from  the  dead. 
herod.     How!     He  raises  people  from  the  dead? 
first  nazarene.     Yea,  sire;  He  raiseth  the  dead. 


92  SALOME 


herod.  I  do  not  wish  Him  to  do  that.  I  forbid  Him  to  do 
that.  I  suffer  no  man  to  raise  the  dead.  This  Man  must 
be  found  and  told  that  I  forbid  Him  to  raise  the  dead. 
Where  is  this  Man  at  present? 

second  nazarene.  He  is  in  every  place,  my  lord,  but  it  is 
hard  to  find  Him. 

first  nazarene.     It  is  said  that  He  is  now  in  Samaria. 

a  jew.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  is  not  Messias,  if  He  is  in 
Samaria.  It  is  not  to  the  Samaritans  that  Messias  shall 
come.  The  Samaritans  are  accursed.  They  bring  no  of- 
ferings to  the  Temple. 

second  nazarene.  He  left  Samaria  a  few  days  since.  I 
think  that  at  the  present  moment  He  is  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Jerusalem. 

first  nazarene.  No;  He  is  not  there.  I  have  just  come 
from  Jerusalem.  For  two  months  they  have  had  no  tidings 
of  Him. 

herod.  No  matter!  But  let  them  find  Him,  and  tell  Him, 
thus  saith  Herod  the  King,  '  I  will  not  suffer  Thee  to  raise 
the  dead.'  To  change  water  into  wine,  to  heal  the  lepers 
and  the  blind.  He  may  do  these  things  if  He  will.  I  say 
nothing  against  these  things.  In  truth  I  hold  it  a  kindly 
deed  to  heal  a  leper.  But  no  man  shall  raise  the  dead.  It 
would  be  terrible  if  the  dead  came  back. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  Ah !  The  wanton  one !  The  harlot ! 
Ah !  the  daughter  of  Babylon  with  her  golden  eyes  and  her 
gilded  eyelids!  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God,  Let  there  come 
up  against  her  a  multitude  of  men.  Let  the  people  take 
stones  and  stone  her. 

herodias.     Command  him  to  be  silent! 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  Let  the  captains  of  the  hosts 
pierce  her  with  their  swords,  let  them  crush  her  beneath 
their  shields. 

herodias.     Nay,  but  it  is  infamous. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  It  is  thus  that  I  will  wipe  out  all 
wickedness  from  the  earth,  and  that  all  women  shall  learn 
not  to  imitate  her  abominations. 


SALOME  93 


herodias.  You  hear  what  he  says  against  me?  You  suffer 
him  to  revile  her  who  is  your  wife? 

herod.     He  did  not  speak  your  name. 

herodias.  What  does  that  matter?  You  know  well  that  it 
is  I  whom  he  seeks  to  revile.  And  I  am  your  wife,  am  I 
not? 

herod.  Of  a  truth,  dear  and  noble  Herodias,  you  are 
my  wife,  and  before  that  you  were  the  wife  of  my 
brother. 

herodias.     It  was  thou  didst  snatch  me  from  his  arms. 

herod.  Of  a  truth  I  was  stronger  than  he  was.  But  let 
us  not  talk  of  that  matter.  I  do  not  desire  to  talk  of  it. 
It  is  the  cause  of  the  terrible  words  that  the  prophet  has 
spoken.  Perad venture  on  account  of  it  a  misfortune  will 
come.  Let  us  not  speak  of  this  matter.  Noble  Herodias, 
we  are  not  mindful  of  our  guests.  Fill  thou  my  cup,  my 
well-beloved.  Ho!  fill  with  wine  the  great  goblets  of 
silver,  and  the  great  goblets  of  glass.  I  will  drink  to 
Caesar.     There  are  Romans  here,  we  must  drink  to  Caesar. 

all.     Caesar!   Caesar! 

herod.     Do  you  not  see  your  daughter,  how  pale  she  is? 

herodias.     What  is  it  to  you  if  she  be  pale  or  not? 

herod.     Never  have  I  seen  her  so  pale. 

herodias.     You  must  not  look  at  her. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  In  that  day  the  sun  shall  become 
black  like  sackcloth  of  hair,  and  the  moon  shall  become 
like  blood,  and  the  stars  of  the  heaven  shall  fall  upon  the 
earth  like  unripe  figs  that  fall  from  the  fig-tree,  and  the 
kings  of  the  earth  shall  be  afraid. 

herodias.  Ah!  ah!  I  should  like  to  see  that  day  of  which 
he  speaks,  when  the  moon  shall  become  like  blood,  and 
when  the  stars  shall  fall  upon  the  earth  like  unripe  figs. 
This  prophet  talks  like  a  drunken  man,  but  I  cannot  suffer 
the  sound  of  his  voice.  I  hate  his  voice.  Command  him 
to  be  silent. 

herod.  I  will  not.  I  cannot  understand  what  it  is  that  he 
saith,  but  it  may  be  an  omen. 


94  SALOME 


herodias.     I  do  not  believe  in  omens.     He  speaks  like  a 

drunken  man. 
herod.     It  may  be  he  is  drunk  with  the  wine  of  God. 
herodias.     What  wine  is  that,  the  wine  of  God?  From  what 

vineyards  is  it  gathered?     In  what  winepress  may  one 

find  it? 
herod  (from  this  point  he  looks  all  the  while  at  Salome).  Tigel- 

linus,  when  you  were  at  Rome  of  late,  did  the  Emperor 

speak  with  you  on  the  subject  of ? 

tigellinus.     On  what  subject,  my  lord? 

herod.     On  what  subject?     Ah!    I  asked  you  a  question, 

did  I  not?     I  have  forgotten  what  I  would  have  asked  you. 
herodias.     You  are  looking  again  at  my  daughter.     You 

must  not  look  at  her.     I  have  already  said  so. 
herod.     You  say  nothing  else. 
herodias.     I  say  it  again. 
herod.     And  that  restoration  of  the  Temple  about  which 

they  have  talked  so  much,  will  anything  be  done?    They 

say  that  the  veil  of  the  Sanctuary  has  disappeared,  do 

they  not? 
herodias.     It  was  thyself  didst  steal  it.     Thou  speakest  at 

random  and  without  wit.    I  will  not  stay  here.    Let  us  go 

within. 
herod.     Dance  for  me,  Salome. 
herodias.     I  will  not  have  her  dance. 
salome.     I  have  no  desire  to  dance,  Tetrarch. 
herod.     Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias,  dance  for  me. 
herodias.     Peace.     Let  her  alone. 
herod.     I  command  thee  to  dance,  Salome. 
salome.     I  will  not  dance,  Tetrarch. 
herodias  (laughing).     You  see  how  she  obeys  you. 
herod.     What  is  it  to  me  whether  she  dance  or  not?    It  is 

nought  to  me.     To-night  I  am  happy.     I  am  exceeding 

happy.     Never  have  I  been  so  happy. 
first  soldier.     The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  look.     Has  he 

not  a  sombre  look? 
second  soldier.     Yes,  he  has  a  sombre  look. 


SALOME  95 


herod.  Wherefore  should  I  not  be  happy?  Caesar,  who  is 
lord  of  the  world,  Caesar,  who  is  lord  of  all  things,  loves 
me  well.  He  has  just  sent  me  most  precious  gifts. .  Also, 
he  has  promised  me  to  summon  to  Rome  the  King  of 
Cappadoeia,  who  is  mine  enemy.  It  may  be  that  at  Rome 
he  will  crucify  him,  for  he  is  able  to  do  all  things  that  he 
has  a  mind  to  do.  Verily,  Caesar  is  lord.  Therefore  I  do 
well  to  be  happy.  I  am  very  happy;  never  have  I  been 
so  happy.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  can  mar  my 
happiness. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  He  shall  be  seated  on  his  throne. 
He  shall  be  clothed  in  scarlet  and  purple.  In  his  hand  he 
shall  bear  a  golden  cup  full  of  his  blasphemies.  And  the 
angel  of  the  Lord  shall  smite  him.  He  shall  be  eaten  of 
worms. 

herodias.  You  hear  what  he  says  about  you.  He  says 
that  you  shall  be  eaten  of  worms. 

herod.  It  is  not  of  me  that  he  speaks.  He  speaks  never 
against  me.  It  is  of  the  King  of  Cappadoeia  that  he 
speaks;  the  King  of  Cappadoeia,  who  is  mine  enemy.  It 
is  he  who  shall  be  eaten  of  worms.  It  is  not  I.  Never 
has  he  spoken  word  against  me,  this  prophet,  save  that  I 
sinned  in  taking  to  wife  the  wife  of  my  brother.  It  may  be 
he  is  right.     For,  of  truth,  you  are  sterile. 

herodias.  I  am  sterile,  I?  You  say  that,  you  that  are 
ever  looking  at  my  daughter,  you  that  would  have  her 
dance  for  your  pleasure?  You  speak  as  a  fool.  I  have 
borne  a  child.  You  have  gotten  no  child,  no,  not  on  one 
of  your  slaves.     It  is  you  who  are  sterile,  not  I. 

herod.  Peace,  woman!  I  say  that  you  are  sterile.  You 
have  borne  me  no  child,  and  the  prophet  says  that  our 
marriage  is  not  a  true  marriage.  He  says  that  it  is  a 
marriage  of  incest,  a  marriage  that  will  bring  evils.  I 
fear  he  is  right;  I  am  sure  that  he  is  right.  But  it  is  not 
the  hour  to  speak  of  these  things.  I  would  be  happy  at 
this  moment.  Of  a  truth,  I  am  happy.  There  is  nothing 
I  lack. 


96  SALOME 


herodias.  I  am  glad  you  are  of  so  fair  a  humour  to-night. 
It  is  not  your  custom.  But  it  is  late.  Let  us  go  within. 
Do  not  forget  that  we  hunt  at  sunrise.  All  honours  must 
be  shown  to  Csesar's  ambassadors,  must  they  not? 

second  soldier.     The  Tetrarch  has  a  sombre  look. 

first  soldier.     Yes,  he  has  a  sombre  look. 

herod.  Salome,  Salome,  dance  for  me.  I  pray  thee  dance 
for  me.  I  am  sad  to-night.  Yes,  I  am  passing  sad  to- 
night. When  I  came  hither  I  slipped  in  blood,  which  is 
an  ill  omen;  also  I  heard  in  the  air  a  beating  of  wings,  a 
beating  of  giant  wings.  I  cannot  tell  what  that  may  mean. 
I  am  sad  to-night.  Therefore  dance  for  me.  Dance  for 
me,  Salome,  I  beseech  thee.  If  thou  dancest  for  me  thou 
mayest  ask  of  me  what  thou  wilt,  and  I  will  give  it  thee. 
Yes,  dance  for  me,  Salome,  and  whatsoever  thou  shalt  ask 
of  me  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  unto  the  half  of  my  kingdom. 

salome  (rising).  Will  you  indeed  give  me  whatsoever  I 
shall  ask  of  you,  Tetrarch? 

herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

herod.  Whatsoever  thou  shalt  ask  of  me,  even  unto  the 
half  of  my  kingdom. 

salome.     You  swear  it,  Tetrarch? 

herod.     I  swear  it,  Salome. 

herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

salome.     By  what  will  you  swear  this  thing,  Tetrarch? 

herod.  By  my  life,  by  my  crown,  by  my  gods.  Whatso- 
ever thou  shalt  desire  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  to  the  half 
of  my  kingdom,  if  thou  wilt  but  dance  for  me.  0  Salome, 
Salome,  dance  for  me! 

salome.     You  have  sworn  an  oath,  Tetrarch. 

herod.     I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

herodias.     My  daughter,  do  not  dance. 

herod.  Even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom.  Thou  wilt  be 
pissing  fair  as  a  queen,  Salome,  if  it  please  thee  to  ask  for 
the  half  of  my  kingdom.  Will  she  not  be  fair  as  a  queen? 
Ah!  it  is  cold  here!  There  is  an  icy  wind,  and  I  hear  — 
wherefore  do  I  hear  in  the  air  this  beating  of  wings?    Ah ! 


SALOME  97 


one  might  fancy  a  huge  black  bird  that  hovers  over  the 
terrace.  Why  can  I  not  see  it,  this  bird?  The  beat  of  its 
wings  is  terrible.  The  breath  of  the  wind  of  its  wings  is 
terrible.  It  is  a  chill  wind.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  cold,  it  is 
hot.  I  am  choking.  Pour  water  on  my  hands.  Give  me 
snow  to  eat.  Loosen  my  mantle.  Quick !  quick !  loosen  my 
mantle.  Nay,  but  leave  it.  It  is  my  garland  that  hurts 
me,  my  garland  of  roses.  The  flowers  are  like  fire.  They 
have  burned  my  forehead.  (He  tears  the  wreath  from  his 
head,  and  throws  it  on  the  table)  Ah!  I  can  breathe  now. 
How  red  those  petals  are!  They  are  like  stains  of  blood  on 
the  cloth.  That  does  not  matter.  It  is  not  wise  to  find 
symbols  in  everything  that  one  sees.  It  makes  life  too 
full  of  terrors.  It  were  better  to  say  that  stains  of  blood 
are  as  lovely  as  rose-petals.     It  were  better  far  to  say 

that But  we  will  not  speak  of  this.    Now  I  am  happy. 

I  am  passing  happy.  Have  I  not  the  right  to  be  happy? 
Your  daughter  is  going  to  dance  for  me.  Wilt  thou  not 
dance  for  me,  Salome?  Thou  hast  promised  to  dance  for 
me. 

herodias.     I  will  not  have  her  dance. 

salome.     I  will  dance  for  you,  Tetrarch. 

herod.  You  hear  what  your  daughter  says.  She  is  going 
to  dance  for  me.  Thou  doest  well  to  dance  for  me,  Salome. 
And  when  thou  hast  danced  for  me,  forget  not  to  ask  of 
me  whatsoever  thou  hast  a  mind  to  ask.  Whatsoever  thou 
shalt  desire  I  will  give  it  thee,  even  to  the  half  of  my  king- 
dom.    I  have  sworn  it,  have  I  not? 

salome.     Thou  hast  sworn  it,  Tetrarch. 

herod.  And  I  have  never  failed  of  my  word.  I  am  not 
of  those  who  break  their  oaths.  I  know  not  how  to  lie. 
I  am  the  slave  of  my  word,  and  my  word  is  the  word  of 
a  king.  The  King  of  Cappadocia  had  ever  a  lying  tongue, 
but  he  is  no  true  king.  He  is  a  coward.  Also  he  owes  me 
money  that  he  will  not  repay.  He  has  even  insulted  my 
ambassadors.  He  has  spoken  words  that  were  wounding. 
But  Caesar  will  crucify  him  when  he  comes  to  Rome.     I 


98  SALOME 


know  that  Csesar  will  crucify  him.  And  if  he  crucify  him 
not,  yet  will  he  die,  being  eaten  of  worms.  The  prophet 
has  prophesied  it.  Well!  Wherefore  dost  thou  tarry, 
Salome? 

salome.  I  am  waiting  until  my  slaves  bring  perfumes  to 
me  and  the  seven  veils,  and  take  from  off  my  feet  my  san- 
dals. 

[Slaves  bring  perfumes  and  the  seven  veils,  and  take  off  the 
sandals  of  Salome. 

herod.  Ah,  thou  art  to  dance  with  naked  feet!  'Tis  well! 
'Tis  well !  Thy  little  feet  will  be  like  white  doves.  They 
will  be  little  white  flowers  that  dance  upon  the  trees.  No, 
no,  she  is  going  to  dance  on  blood!  There  is  blood  spilt 
on  the  ground.  She  must  not  dance  on  blood.  It  were 
an  evil  omen. 

herodias.  What  is  it  to  thee  if  she  dance  on  blood?  Thou 
hast  waded  deep  enough  in  it. 

herod.  What  is  it  to  me?  Ah!  look  at  the  moon!  She  has 
become  red.  She  has  become  red  as  blood.  Ah!  the 
prophet  prophesied  truly.  He  prophesied  that  the  moon 
would  become  as  blood.  Did  he  not  prophesy  it?  All  of 
ye  heard  him  prophesying  it.  And  now  the  moon  has  be- 
come as  blood.     Do  ye  not  see  it? 

herodias.  Oh,  yes,  I  see  it  well,  and  the  stars  are  falling 
like  unripe  figs,  are  they  not?  And  the  sun  is  becoming 
black  like  sackcloth  of  hair,  and  the  kings  of  the  earth  are 
afraid.  That,  at  least,  one  can  see.  The  prophet  is  jus- 
tified of  his  words  in  that  at  least,  for  truly  the  kings  of 
the  earth  are  afraid.  Let  us  go  within.  You  are  sick. 
They  will  say  at  Rome  that  you  are  mad.  Let  us  go 
within,  I  tell  you. 

the  voice  of  iokanaan.  Who  is  this  who  cometh  from 
Edom,  who  is  this  who  cometh  from  Bozra,  whose  raiment 
is  dyed  with  purple,  who  .«hineth  in  the  beauty  of  his  gar- 
ments, who  walketh  mighty  in  his  greatness?  Wherefore 
is  thy  raiment  stained  with  scarlet? 

herodias.     Let  us  go  within.     The  voice  of  that  man  mad- 


SALOME  09 


dens  me.  I  will  not  have  my  daughter  dance  while  he  is 
continually  crying  out.  I  will  not  have  her  dance  while 
you  look  at  her  in  this  fashion.  In  a  word,  I  will  not  have 
her  dance. 

herod.  Do  not  rise,  my  wife,  my  queen;  it  will  avail  thee 
nothing.  I  will  not  go  within  till  she  hath  danced.  Dance, 
Salome,  dance  for  me. 

herodias.     Do  not  dance,  my  daughter. 

salome.     I  am  ready,  Tetrarch. 

[Salome  dances  the  dance  of  the  seven  veils. 

herod.  Ah!  wonderful!  wonderful!  You  see  that  she  has 
danced  for  me,  your  daughter.  Come  near,  Salome,  come 
near,  that  I  may  give  thee  thy  fee.  Ah !  I  pay  a  royal  price 
to  those  who  dance  for  my  pleasure.  I  will  pay  thee 
royally.  I  will  give  thee  whatsoever  thy  soul  desireth. 
What  wouldst  thou  have?     Speak. 

salome  {kneeling).  I  would  that  they  presently  bring  me 
in  a  silver  charger 

herod  {laughing).  In  a  silver  charger?  Surely  yes,  in  a 
silver  charger.  She  is  charming,  is  she  not?  What  is  it 
that  thou  wouldst  have  in  a  silver  charger,  O  sweet  and 
fair  Salome,  thou  that  art  fairer  than  all  the  daughters 
of  Judaea?  What  wouldst  thou  have  them  bring  thee  in  a 
silver  charger?  Tell  me.  Whatsoever  it  may  be,  thou 
shalt  receive  it.  My  treasures  belong  to  thee.  What  is 
that  thou  wouldst  have,  Salome? 

salome  {rising).     The  head  of  Iokanaan. 

herodias.     Ah!  that  is  well  said,  my  daughter. 

herod.     No,  no! 

herodias.     That  is  well  said,  my  daughter. 

herod.  No,  no,  Salome.  It  is  not  that  thou  desirest.  Do 
not  listen  to  thy  mother's  voice.  She  is  ever  giving  evil 
counsel.     Do  not  heed  her. 

salome.  It  is  not  my  mother's  voice  that  I  heed.  It  is 
for  mine  own  pleasure  that  I  ask  the  head  of  Iokanaan  in 
a  silver  charger.  You  have  sworn  an  oath,  Herod.  For- 
get not  that  you  have  sworn  an  oath. 


100  SALOME 


herod.  I  know  it.  I  have  sworn  an  oath  by  my  gods.  I 
know  it  well.  But  I  pray  thee,  Salome,  ask  of  me  some- 
thing else.  Ask  of  me  the  half  of  my  kingdom,  and  I  will 
give  it  thee.     But  ask  not  of  me  what  thy  lips  have  asked. 

salome.     I  ask  of  you  the  head  of  Iokanaan. 

herod.     No,  no;  I  will  not  give  it  thee. 

salome.     You  have  sworn  an  oath,  Herod. 

herodias.  Yes,  you  have  sworn  an  oath.  Everybody 
heard  you.     You  swore  it  before  everybody. 

herod.     Peace,  woman!     It  is  not  to  you  I  speak. 

herodias.  My  daughter  has  done  well  to  ask  the  head  of 
Iokanaan.  He  has  covered  me  with  insults.  He  has  said 
unspeakable  things  against  me.  One  can  see  that  she 
loves  her  mother  well.  Do  not  yield,  my  daughter.  He 
has  sworn  an  oath;  he  has  sworn  an  oath. 

herod.  Peace!  Speak  not  to  me!  Salome,  I  pray  thee  be 
not  stubborn.  I  have  ever  been  kind  toward  thee.  I 
have  ever  loved  thee.  It  may  be  that  I  have  loved  thee 
too  much.  Therefore  ask  not  this  thing  of  me.  This  is  a 
terrible  thing,  an  awful  thing  to  ask  of  me.  Surely,  I 
think  thou  art  jesting.  The  head  of  a  man  that  is  cut 
from  his  body  is  ill  to  look  upon,  is  it  not?  It  is  not  meet 
that  the  eyes  of  a  virgin  should  look  upon  such  a  thing. 
What  pleasure  couldst  thou  have  in  it?  There  is  no 
pleasure  that  thou  couldst  have  in  it.  No,  no;  it  is  not 
that  thou  desirest.  Hearken  to  me.  I  have  an  emerald, 
a  great  emerald  and  round,  that  the  minion  of  Caesar  has 
sent  unto  me.  When  thou  lookest  through  this  emerald 
thou  canst  see  that  which  passeth  afar  off.  Csesar  him- 
self carries  such  an  emerald  when  he  goes  to  the  circus. 
But  my  emerald  is  the  larger.  I  know  well  that  it  is  the 
larger.  It  is  the  largest  emerald  in  the  whole  world. 
Thou  wilt  take  that,  wilt  thou  not?  Ask  it  of  me  and  I 
will  give  it  thee. 

salome.     I  demand  the  head  of  Iokanaan. 

herod.  Thou  art  not  listening.  Thou  art  not  listening. 
Suffer  me  to  speak,  Salome. 


SALOME  101 


salome.     The  head  of  Iokanaan! 

herod.  No,  no,  thou  wouldst  not  have  that.  Thou  sayest 
that  but  to  trouble  me,  because  that  I  have  looked  at  thee 
and  ceased  not  this  night.  It  is  true,  I  have  looked  at 
thee  and  ceased  not  this  night.  Thy  beauty  has  troubled 
me.  Thy  beauty  has  grievously  troubled  me,  and  I  have 
looked  at  thee  overmuch.  Nay,  but  I  will  look  at  thee 
no  more.  One  should  not  look  at  anything.  Neither  at 
things,  nor  at  people  should  one  look.  Only  in  mirrors  is 
it  well  to  look,  for  mirrors  do  but  show  us  masks.  Oh! 
oh!  bring  wine!     I  thirst!     Salome,  Salome,  let  us  be  as 

friends.     Bethink  thee Ah!  what  would  I  say?   What 

was't?  Ah!  I  remember  it!  Salome, — nay,  but  come 
nearer  to  me;  I  fear  thou  wilt  not  hear  my  words,  —  Salome, 
thou  knowest  my  white  peacocks,  my  beautiful  white  pea- 
cocks, that  walk  in  the  garden  between  the  myrtles  and  the 
tall  cypress-trees.  Their  beaks  are  gilded  with  gold,  and 
the  grains  that  they  eat  are  smeared  with  gold,  and  their 
feet  are  stained  with  purple.  When  they  cry  out  the  rain 
comes,  and  the  moon  shows  herself  in  the  heavens  when 
they  spread  their  tails.  Two  by  two,  they  walk  between 
the  cypress  trees  and  the  black  myrtles,  and  each  has  a 
slave  to  tend  it.  Sometimes  they  fly  across  the  trees,  and 
anon  they  couch  in  the  grass,  and  round  the  pools  of  the 
water.  There  are  not  in  all  the  world  birds  so  wonderful. 
I  know  that  Caesar  himself  has  no  birds  so  fair  as  my  birds. 
I  will  give  thee  fifty  of  my  peacocks.  They  will  follow 
thee  whithersoever  thou  goest,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 
thou  wilt  be  like  unto  the  moon  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
white  cloud.  I  will  give  them  to  thee,  all.  I  have  but  a 
hundred,  and  in  the  whole  world  there  is  no  king  who  has 
peacocks  like  unto  my  peacocks.  But  I  will  give  them 
all  to  thee.  Only  thou  must  loose  me  from  my  oath, 
and  must  not  ask  of  me  that  which  thy  lips  have  asked 
of  me. 
[He  empties  the  cup  of  wine. 

salome.     Give  me  the  head  of  Iokanaan. 


102  SALOME 


herodias.  Well  said,  my  daughter!  As  for  you,  you  are 
ridiculous  with  your  peacocks. 

herod.  Peace!  you  are  always  crying  out.  You  cry  out 
like  a  beast  of  prey.  You  rnust  not  cry  in  such  fashion. 
Your  voice  wearies  me.  Peace,  I  tell  you !  Salome,  think 
on  what  thou  art  doing.  It  may  be  that  this  man  comes 
from  God.  He  is  a  holy  man.  The  finger  of  God  has 
touched  him.  God  has  put  terrible  words  into  his  mouth. 
In  the  palace,  as  in  the  desert,  God  is  ever  with  him!  It 
may  be  that  He  is,  at  least.  One  cannot  tell,  but  it  is  pos- 
sible that  God  is  with  him  and  for  him.  If  he  die  also, 
peradventure  some  evil  may  befall  me.  Verily,  he  has 
said  that  evil  will  befall  some  one  on  the  day  whereon  he 
dies.  On  whom  should  it  fall  if  it  fall  not  on  me?  Re- 
member, I  slipped  in  blood  when  I  came  hither.  Also 
did  I  not  hear  the  beating  of  wings  in  the  air,  a  beating 
of  vast  wings?  These  are  ill  omens.  And  there  were 
other  things.  I  am  sure  there  were  other  things,  though 
I  saw  them  not.  Thou  wouldst  not  that  some  evil  should 
befall  me,  Salome?     Listen  to  me  again. 

salome.     Give  me  the  head  of  Iokanaan! 

herod.  Ah!  thou  art  not  listening  to  me.  Be  calm.  As 
for  me,  am  I  not  calm?  I  am  altogether  calm.  Listen. 
I  have  jewels  hidden  in  this  place  —  jewels  that  thy  mother 
even  has  never  seen;  jewels  that  are  marvelous  to  look  at. 
I  have  a  collar  of  pearls,  set  in  four  rows.  They  are  like 
unto  moons  chained  with  rays  of  silver.  They  are  even 
as  half  a  hundred  moons  caught  in  a  golden  net.  On  the 
ivory  breast  of  a  queen  they  have  rested.  Thou  shalt  be 
as  fair  as  a  queen  when  thou  wearest  them.  I  have  ame- 
thysts of  two  kinds;  one  that  is  black  like  wine,  and  one 
that  is  red  like  wine  that  one  has  colored  with  water.  I 
have  topazes  yellow  as  are  the  eyes  of  tigers,  and  topazes 
that  are  pink  as  the  eyes  of  a  wood-pigeon,  and  green 
topazes  that  are  as  the  eyes  of  cats.  I  have  opals  that 
burn  always,  with  a  flame  that  is  cold  as  ice,  opals  that 
make  sad  men's  minds,  and  are  afraid  of  the  shadows.    I 


SALOME  103 


have  onyxes  like  the  eyeballs  of  a  dead  woman.  I  have 
moonstones  that  change  when  the  moon  changes,  and  are 
wan  when  they  see  the  sun.  I  have  sapphires  big  like 
eggs,  and  as  blue  as  blue  flowers.  The  sea  wanders  within 
them,  and  the  moon  comes  never  to  trouble  the  blue  of 
their  waves.  I  have  chrysolites  and  beryls,  and  chryso- 
prases  and  rubies;  I  have  sardonyx  and  hyacinth  stones, 
and  stones  of  chalcedony,  and  I  will  give  them  all  unto 
thee,  all,  and  other  things  will  I  add  to  them.  The  King 
of  the  Indies  has  but  even  now  sent  me  four  fans  fashioned 
from  the  feathers  of  parrots,  and  the  King  of  Numidia  a 
garment  of  ostrich  feathers.  I  have  a  crystal,  into  which  it 
is  not  lawful  for  a  woman  to  look,  nor  may  young  men 
behold  it  until  they  have  been  beaten  with  rods.  In  a 
coffer  of  nacre  I  have  three  wondrous  turquoises.  He  who 
wears  them  on  his  forehead  can  imagine  things  which  are 
not,  and  he  who  carries  them  in  his  hand  can  turn  the 
fruitful  woman  into  a  woman  that  is  barren.  These  are 
great  treasures.  They  are  treasures  above  all  price.  But 
this  is  not  all.  In  an  ebony  coffer  I  have  two  cups  of  amber 
that  are  like  apples  of  pure  gold.  If  an  enemy  pour  poison 
into  these  cups  they  become  like  apples  of  silver.  In  a 
coffer  incrusted  with  amber  I  have  sandals  incrusted  with 
glass.  I  have  mantles  that  have  been  brought  from  the 
land  of  the  Seres,  and  bracelets  decked  about  with  car- 
buncles and  with  jade  that  come  from  the  city  of  Eu- 
phrates. What  desirest  thou  more  than  this,  Salome? 
Tell  me  the  thing  that  thou  desirest,  and  I  will  give  it 
thee.  All  that  thou  askest  I  will  give  thee,  save  one  thing 
only.  I  will  give  thee  all  that  is  mine,  save  only  the  life 
of  one  man.  1  will  give  thee  the  mantle  of  the  high  priest. 
I  will  give  thee  the  veil  of  the  sanctuary. 

the  jews.     Oh !  oh ! 

salome.     Give  me  the  head  of  Iokanaan! 

herod  (sinking  back  in  his  seat).  Let  her  be  given  what  she 
asks!  Of  a  truth  she  is  her  mother's  child!  (The  first 
soldier  approaches.     Herodias  draws  from  the  hand  of  the 


104  SALOME 


Tetrarch  the  ring  of  death,  and  gives  it  to  the  soldier,  who 
straightway  bears  it  to  the  executioner.  The  executioner  looks 
scared)  Who  has  taken  my  ring?  There  was  a  ring  on 
my  right  hand.  Who  has  drunk  my  wine?  There  was 
wine  in  my  cup.  It  was  full  of  wine.  Some  one  has  drunk 
it!  Oh!  surely  some  evil  will  befall  some  one.  (The  exe- 
cutioner goes  down  into  the  cistern)  Ah !  wherefore  did  I  give 
my  oath?  Hereafter  let  no  king  swear  an  oath.  If  he  keep 
it  not,  it  is  terrible,  and  if  he  keep  it,  it  is  terrible  also. 

herodias.     My  daughter  has  done  well. 

herod.     I  am  sure  that  some  misfortune  will  happen. 

salome  (she  leans  over  the  cistern  and  listens).  There  is  no 
sound.  I  hear  nothing.  Why  does  he  not  cry  out,  this 
man?  Ah!  if  any  man  sought  to  kill  me,  I  would  cry  out, 
I  would  struggle,  I  would  not  suffer.  Strike,  strike,  Naa- 
man,  strike,  I  tell  you!  No,  I  hear  nothing.  There  is  a 
silence,  a  terrible  silence.  Ah!  something  has  fallen  upon 
the  ground.  I  heard  something  fall.  It  was  the  sword 
of  the  executioner.  He  is  afraid,  this  slave.  He  has 
dropped  his  sword.  He  dares  not  kill  him.  He  is  a  cow- 
ard, this  slave !  Let  soldiers  be  sent.  (She  sees  the  page  of 
Herodias  and  addresses  him)  Come  hither.  Thou  wert 
the  friend  of  him  who  is  dead,  wert  thou  not?  Well,  I 
tell  thee,  there  are  not  dead  men  enough.  Go  to  the  sol- 
diers and  bid  them  go  down  and  bring  me  the  thing  I  ask, 
the  thing  the  Tetrarch  has  promised  me,  the  thing  that  is 
mine.  (The  page  recoils.  She  turns  to  the  soldiers)  Hither, 
ye  soldiers.  Get  ye  down  into  this  cistern  and  bring  me 
the  head  of  this  man.  Tetrarch,  Tetrarch,  command  your 
soldiers  that  they  bring  me  the  head  of  Iokanaan.  (A 
huge  black  arm,  the  arm  of  the  executioner,  comes  forth  from 
the  cistern,  bearing  on  a  silver  shield  the  head  of  Iokanaan. 
Salome  seizes  it.  Herod  hides  his  face  with  his  cloak.  Hero- 
dias smiles  and  fans  herself.  The  Nazarenes  fall  on  their 
knees  and  begin  to  pray)  Ah !  thou  wouldst  not  suffer  me 
to  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan.  Well!  I  will  kiss  it  now. 
I  will  bite  it  with  my  teeth  as  one  bites  a  ripe  fruit.     Yes, 


SALOME  105 


I  will  kiss  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan.  I  said  it;  did  I  not  say- 
it?  I  said  it.  Ah!  I  will  kiss  it  now.  But  wherefore 
dost  thou  not  look  at  me,  Iokanaan?  Thine  eyes  that 
were  so  terrible,  so  full  of  rage  and  scorn,  are  shut  now. 
Wherefore  are  they  shut?  Open  thine  eyes!  Lift  up 
thine  eyelids,  Iokanaan!  Wherefore  dost  thou  not  look 
at  me?  Art  thou  afraid  of  me,  Iokanaan,  that  thou  wilt 
not  look  at  me?  And  thy  tongue,  that  was  like  a  red 
snake  darting  poison,  it  moves  no  more,  it  speaks  no  words, 
Iokanaan,  that  scarlet  viper  that  spat  its  venom  upon  me. 
It  is  strange,  is  it  not?  How  is  it  that  the  red  viper  stirs 
no  longer?  Thou  wouldst  have  none  of  me,  Iokanaan. 
Thou  rejectedest  me.  Thou  didst  speak  evil  words  against 
me.  Thou  didst  bear  thyself  toward  me  as  to  a  harlot, 
as  to  a  woman  that  is  a  wanton,  to  me,  Salome,  daughter 
of  Herodias,  Princess  of  Judaea!  Well,  I  still  live,  but 
thou  art  dead,  and  thy  head  belongs  to  me.  I  can  do  with 
it  what  I  will.  I  can  throw  it  to  the  dogs  and  to  the  birds 
of  the  air.  That  which  the  dogs  leave,  the  birds  of  the 
air  shall  devour.  Ah,  Iokanaan,  Iokanaan,  thou  wert  the 
man  that  I  loved  alone  among  men!  All  other  men  were 
hateful  to  me.  But  thou  wert  beautiful!  Thy  body  was 
a  column  of  ivory  set  upon  feet  of  silver.  It  was  a  garden 
full  of  doves  and  lilies  of  silver.  It  was  a  tower  of  silver 
decked  with  shields  of  ivory.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  so  white  as  thy  body.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
world  so  black  as  thy  hair.  In  the  whole  world  there  was 
nothing  so  red  as  thy  mouth.  Thy  voice  was  a  censer 
that  scattered  strange  perfumes,  and  when  I  looked  on 
thee  I  heard  a  strange  music.  Ah!  wherefore  didst  thou 
not  look  at  me,  Iokanaan?  With  the  cloak  of  thine 
hands,  and  with  the  cloak  of  thy  blasphemies  thou  didst 
hide  thy  face.  Thou  didst  put  upon  thine  eyes  the  cov- 
ering of  him  who  would  see  God.  Well,  thou  hast  seen 
thy  God,  Iokanaan,  but  me,  me,  thou  didst  never  see.  If 
thou  hadst  seen  me  thou  hadst  loved  me.  I  saw  tbee,  and 
I  loved  thee.     Oh,  how  I  loved  thee!     I  love  thee  yet, 


106  SALOME 


Iokanaan.  I  love  only  thee.  I  am  athirst  for  thy  beauty ; 
I  am  hungry  for  thy  body;  and  neither  wine  nor  apples 
can  appease  my  desire.  What  shall  I  do  now,  Iokanaan? 
Neither  the  floods  nor  the  great  waters  can  quench  my 
passion.  I  was  a  princess,  and  thou  didst  scorn  me.  I 
was  a  virgin,  and  thou  didst  take  my  virginity  from  me. 
I  was  chaste,  and  thou  didst  fill  my  veins  with  fire.  Ah! 
ah!  wherefore  didst  thou  not  look  at  me?  If  thou  hadst 
looked  at  me  thou  hadst  loved  me.  Well  I  know  that 
thou  wouldst  have  loved  me,  and  the  mystery  of  Love  is 
greater  than  the  mystery  of  Death. 

herod.  She  is  monstrous,  thy  daughter;  I  tell  thee  she  is 
monstrous.  In  truth,  what  she  has  done  is  a  great  crime. 
I  am  sure  that  it  is  a  crime  against  some  unknown  God. 

herod ias.  I  am  well  pleased  with  my  daughter.  She  has 
done  well.     And  I  would  stay  here  now. 

herod  (rising).  Ah!  There  speaks  my  brother's  wife! 
Come!  I  will  not  stay  in  this  place.  Come,  I  tell  thee. 
Surely  some  terrible  thing  will  befall.  Manasseh,  Issa- 
char,  Ozias,  put  out  the  torches.  I  will  not  look  at  things, 
I  will  not  suffer  things  to  look  at  me.  Put  out  the  torches ! 
Hide  the  moon!  Hide  the  stars!  Let  us  hide  ourselves 
in  our  palace,  Herodias.  I  begin  to  be  afraid. 
[The  slaves  put  out  the  torches.  The  stars  disappear.  A  great 
cloud  crosses  the  moon  and  conceals  it  completely.  The  stage 
becomes  quite  dark.  The  Tetrarch  begins  to  climb  the  staircase. 

the  voice  of  salome.  Ah!  I  have  kissed  thy  mouth,  Io- 
kanaan, I  have  kissed  thy  mouth.  There  was  a  bitter 
taste  on  thy  lips.  Was  it  the  taste  of  blood?  Nay;  but 
perchance  it  was  the  taste  of  love.  They  say  that  love 
hath  a  bitter  taste.  But  what  matter?  what  matter?  I 
have  kissed  thy  mouth,  Iokanaan,  I  have  kissed  thy  mouth. 
[A  ray  of  moonlight  falls  on  Salome  and  illumines  her. 

herod  (turning  round  and  seeing  Salome).  Kill  that  woman! 
[The  soldiers  rush  forward  and  crush  beneath  their  shields 
Salome,  daughter  of  Herodias,  Princess  of  Judcea. 

curtain. 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  STALLS 

ALFRED  SUTRO 

Alfred  Sutro  was  born  in  London,  1863.  He  was  edu- 
cated in  his  native  city  and  in  Brussels.  Since  1896,  when  he 
made  his  first  theatrical  venture,  he  has  produced  a  large 
number  of  successful  plays,  including  serious  dramas 
and  light  sentimental  comedies.  His  first  play  —  "The 
Chili  Widow",  written  in  collaboration  with  the  actor 
Arthur  Bourchier  —  is  an  adaptation  from  the  French.  "  The 
Walls  of  Jericho",  "Mollentrave  on  Women",  "The  Fas- 
cinating Mr.  Vanderveldt",  and  "John  Glayde's  Honour" 
are  among  the  most  successful  of  the  earlier  plays.  Of  late, 
Mr.  Sutro  has  turned  to  satirical  comedy,  the  best  examples 
of  which  are  "The  Perplexed  Husband"  and  "The  Clever 
Ones." 

Some  of  Mr.  Sutro's  most  characteristic  work  is  found 
in  his  numerous  one-act  plays,  many  of  which  were  written 
as  curtain  raisers.  These  plays  are  well-knit  technically 
and  are  particularly  well  adapted  to  the  purpose  for  which 
they  were  intended.  Mr.  Sutro  is  essentially  a  man  of  the 
theater,  in  no  sense  an  innovator;  he  is  content  to  write 
about  everyday  people  in  a  traditional  form. 

PLAYS 

Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 
The  Cave  of  Illusion  (1900)      *The  Gutter  of  Time  (1902) 
*Ella's  Apology  (1902)  *A  Maker  of  Men  (1902) 

*A  Game  of  Chess  (1902)  *Mr.   Steinmann's  Corner 

*The  Correct  Thing  (1902)  (1902) 

*Carrots  (1902)  The  Salt  of  Life  (1902) 


108 


THE  MAN  m  THE  STALLS 


*The  Open  Door  (1903) 

Arethusa  (1903) 

A  Lonely  Life  (1903) 

The  Walls  of  Jericho  (1904) 
*A  Marriage  Has  Been  Ar- 
ranged (1904) 

Mollentrave  on  Women 
(1905) 

The  Perfect  Lover  (1905) 
(In  England,  The  Price  of 
Money,  1906) 

The  Fascinating  Mr.  Van- 
derveldt  (1906) 

JohnGlayde's  Honour(1907) 

The  Barrier  (1907) 

The  Builder  of  Bridges  (1908) 


*The  Man  on  the  Kerb(1908) 

Making  a  Gentleman  (1909) 
*The  Man  in  the  Stalls  (1911) 

The  Perplexed  Husband 
(1911) 

The  Fire-Screen  (1912) 
*The  Bracelet  (1912) 

The  Clever  Ones  (1914) 

The  Two  Virtues  (1914) 

Freedom  (1915) 
*The  Great  Redding  Street 

Burglary  (1916) 
*The  Marriage    .    .    .    Will 

Not  Take  Place  (1917) 
*TheTrap  (1918) 

The  Choice  (1919) 


"The  Cave  of  Illusion"  is  published  by  Grant  Richards, 
London;  "The  Fascinating  Mr.  Vanderveldt",  "The  Bar- 
rier", "John  Glayde's  Honour ",  "Mollentrave  on  Women", 
"The  Perfect  Lover"  (as  "The  Price  of  Money"),  "The 
Walls  of  Jericho",  "Carrots",  "The  Correct  Thing",  "Ella's 
Apology",  "A  Game  of  Chess",  "The  Marriage  .  .  .  Will 
Not  Take  Place",  "The  Gutter  of  Time",  "A  Maker  of 
Men",  "A  Marriage  Has  Been  Arranged",  "The  Open 
Door",  "Mr.  Steinmann's  Corner",  "The  Salt  of  Life", 
"The  Builder  of  Bridges",  "The  Fire-Screen",  "The  Per- 
plexed Husband",  "The  Two  Virtues",  "The  Bracelet", 
"The  Man  on  the  Kerb",  are  published  by  Samuel  French, 
New  York;  "The  Man  in  the  Stalls",  "A  Marriage  Has 
Been  Arranged",  "The  Man  on  the  Kerb",  "The  Open  Door" 
and  "The  Bracelet"  are  published  in  one  volume  as  "Five 
Little  Plays"  by  Brentano's,  New  York;  "Freedom"  by  the 
same. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  ALFRED  SUTRO 


"The  Man  in  the  Stalls"  was  first  produced  at  London  in 
1911. 

Characters 

Hector  Allen 
Elizabeth  Allen  (Betty) 
Walter  Cozens 


COPTBIGHT,   1911,  BY  SAMTJEL  FbENCH,  LTD. 

Reprinted  from  "Five  Little  Plays",  published  by  Brentano,  by  permission  of 
Samuel  French. 

This  play  has  been  copyrighted  in  America  by  the  author's  agents,  Messrs.  Samuel 
French,  Ltd.,  2fl  Southampton  Street,  Strand,  to  whom  all  applications,  both  in  England 
and  America,  should  be  addressed. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 
i 

The  sitting-room  of  a  little  flat  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  At 
back  is  a  door  leading  to  the  dining-room  —  it  is  open,  and  the 
dinner-table  is  in  full  view  of  the  audience.  To  the  extreme 
right  is  another  door,  leading  to  the  hall. 

The  place  is  pleasantly  and  prettily,  though  quite  inexpen- 
sively, furnished.  To  the  left,  at  angles  with  the  distempered 
wall,  is  a  baby -grand  piano;  the  fireplace,  in  which  afire  is  burn- 
ing merrily,  is  on  the  same  side,  full  centre.  To  the  right  of  the 
door  leading  to  the  dining-room  is  a  small  side-table,  on  which 
there  is  a  tray  with  decanter  and  glasses;  in  front  of  this,  a  card 
table,  open,  with  two  packs  of  cards  on  it,  and  chairs  on  each 
side.  Another  table,  a  round  one,  is  in  the  centre  of  the  room  — 
to  right  and  to  left  of  it  are  comfortable  armchairs.  Against  the 
rigid  wall  is  a  long  sofa;  above  it  hang  a  few  good  water-colours 
and  engravings;  on  the  piano  and  the  table  there  are  flowers.  A 
general  appearance  of  refinement  and  comfort  pervades  the  room; 
no  luxury,  but  evidence  everywhere  of  good  taste,  and  the  count- 
less feminine  touches  that  make  a  room  homelike  and  pleasant. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  Hector  Allen,  a  youngish  man  of 
forty,  with  an  attractive  intellectual  face,  is  seen  standing  by  the 
dining-table  in  the  inner  room,  draining  his  liqueur-glass,  with 
Walter  Cozens  to  the  right  of  him,  lighting  a  cigarette.  Walter 
is  a  few  years  younger  than  his  friend,  moderately  good-looking, 
with  fine,  curly  brown  hair  and  a  splendid  silky  moustache.  His 
morning-clothes  are  conspicuously  well-cut  —  he  is  evidently 
something  of  a  dandy;  Hector  wears  a  rather  shabby  dress-suit, 
his  boots  are  aiokward,  and  his  tie  ready-made.  Betty,  a  hand- 
some woman  of  thirty,  wearing  a  very  pretty  tea-gown,  is  talking 
to  the  maid  at  the  back  of  the  dining  room. 

Hector  puts  down  his  glass  and  comes  into  the  sitting  room, 
followed  by  Walter,  Hector  is  puffing  at  a  short,  stumpy  little 
black  cigar. 


112  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

hector  {talking  as  he  comes  through,  continuing  the  conversa- 
tion—  he  walks  to  the  fireplace,  and  stands  with  his  back  to  it). 
I  tell  you,  if  I'd  known  what  it  meant,  I'd  never  have  taken 
the  job!  Sounded  so  fine,  to  be  reader  of  plays  for  the 
Duke's  Theatre  —  adviser  to  the  great  Mr.  Honeyswill! 
And  then  —  when  the  old  man  said  I  was  to  go  to  all  the 
first  nights  —  why,  I  just  chortled!  "It's  the  first  nights 
that  show  you  the  grip  of  the  thing  —  that  teach  you 
most"  —  he  said.  Teach  you!  As  though  there  were  any- 
thing to  learn!     Oh  my  stars!     I  tell  you,  it's  a  dog's  life! 

Walter  (sitting  to  left  of  the  round  table).  I'd  change  places 
with  you,  sonny. 

hector.  You  would,  eh?  That's  what  they  all  say!  Four 
new  plays  this  week,  my  lad  —  one  yesterday,  one  to-day  — 
another  to-morrow,  and  the  night  after !  All  day  long  I'm 
reading  plays  —  and  I  spend  my  nights  seeing  'em!  D'you 
know,  I  read  about  two  thousand  a  year?  Divide  two  thou- 
sand by  three  hundred  and  sixty-five.  A  dog's  life  —  that's 
what  it  is! 

walter.  Better  than  being  a  stockbroker's  clerk  —  you  be- 
lieve me! 

hector.  Is  it?  I  wish  you  could  have  a  turn  at  it,  my 
bonny  boy!  Your  hair'd  go  grey,  like  mine!  And  look 
here  —  what  are  the  plays  to-day?  They're  either  so 
chock-full  of  intellect  that  they  send  you  to  sleep  —  or  they 
reek  of  sentiment  till  you  yearn  for  the  smell  of  a  cabbage! 

Walter.     Well,  you've  the  change,  at  any  rate. 

hector  (snorting).  Change?  By  Jove,  give  me  a  Punch 
and  Judy  show  on  the  sands  —  or  performing  dogs !  Plays 
—  I'm  sick  of  'em!  And  look  here  —  the  one  I'm  off  to  to- 
night. It's  adapted  from  the  French  —  well,  we  know 
what  that  means.  Husband,  wife  and  mistress.  Or  wife, 
husband,  lover.  That's  what  a  French  play  means.  And 
you  make  it  English,  and  pass  the  Censor,  by  putting  the 
lady  in  a  mackintosh,  and  dumping  in  a  curate! 

betty  (coming  in,  and  closing  the  door  leading  to  the  dining 
room) .     You  ought  to  be  going,  Hector. 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  STALLS  113 

[She  stands  listening  for  a  moment,  then  goes  through  the  other 
door  into  the  hall. 

hector  (disregarding  her,  too  intent  on  his  theme).  And  I  tell 
you,  of  the  two,  I  prefer  the  home-made  stodge.  I'm  sick 
of  the  eternal  triangle.  They  always  do  the  same  thing. 
Husband  strikes  attitudes  —  sometimes  he  strikes  the  lover. 
The  lover  never  stands  up  to  him  —  why  shouldn't  he?  He 
would  —  in  real  life.  (Betty  comes  back  with  his  overcoat  and 
muffler  —  she  proceeds  affectionately  to  wrap  this  round  his 
neck,  and  helps  him  on  with  his  coat,  he  talking  all  the  time) 
He'd  say,  look  here,  you  go  to  Hell.  That's  what  he'd  say 
—  well,  there  you'd  have  a  situation.  But  not  one  of  the 
play  writing  chaps  dares  do  it.  Why  not,  I  ask  you  ?  There 
you'd  have  the  truth,  something  big.  But  no  —  they're 
afraid  —  think  the  public  won't  like  it.  The  husband's  got 
to  down  the  lover  —  like  a  big  tom-cat  with  a  mouse  —  or 
the  author 'd  have  to  sell  one  of  his  motor-cars!  That's  just 
the  fact  of  it ! 

betty  (looking  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece).  Twenty-five 
past,  Hector. 

hector  (cheerily).  All  right,  my  lass,  I'm  off.  By-bye, 
Walter  —  keep  the  old  woman  company  for  a  bit.  Good-bye, 
sweetheart.  (He  kisses  her)  Don't  wait  up.  Now  for 
the  drama.     Oh,  the  dog's  life! 

[He  goes.  Betty  waits  till  the  hall  door  has  banged,  then  she 
sits  on  the  elbow  of  Walter's  chair,  and  rests  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

betty  (softly).     Poor  Hector! 

Walter  (uncomfortably)    .    .    .    Yes    .    .    . 

betty.     Doesn't  it  make  you  feel  dreadful  when  he  talks  like 
that?     (She  kisses  him;  then  puts  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
draws  his  face  to  her,  and  kisses  him  again,  on  the  cheek) 
Doesn't  it? 
[She  nestles  contentedly  closer  to  him. 

Walter  (trying  to  edge  away).    Well,  it  does.    Yes. 

betty  (dreamily) .     I  —  like  it. 

Walter.     Betty ! 


114  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

betty.  Yes,  I  like  it.  I  don't  know  why.  I  suppose  I'm 
frightfully  wicked.     Or  the  danger  perhaps  —  I  don't  know. 

Walter  (making  a  futile  effort  to  get  up) .     Betty 

betty  (tightening  her  arms  around  him).  Stop  there,  and 
don't  move.  How  smooth  your  chin  is  —  his  scrapes. 
Why  don't  husbands  shave  better?  Or  is  it  that  the  for- 
bidden chin  is  always  smoother?  Poor  old  Hector!  If  he 
could  see  us !  He  hasn't  a  suspicion.  I  think  it's  lovely  — 
really,  I  do.  He  leaves  us  here  together,  night  after  night, 
and  imagines  you're  teaching  me  bridge. 

Walter  (restlessly).     So  I  am.     Where  are  the  cards? 

betty  (caressing  him).  Silly,  have  you  forgotten  that  this 
is  Tuesday  —  Maggie's  night  out?  She's  gone  —  I  told  her 
she  needn't  wait  to  clear  away.  We've  arranged  master's 
supper.     Master!     You're  my  master,  aren't  you? 

Walter.    ...    I  don't  know  what  I  am    .    .    . 

betty.  Oh  yes  you  do  —  you're  my  boy.  Whom  1  love. 
There.  (She  kisses  him  again,  full  on  the  lips)  That  was 
a  nice  one,  wasn't  it?  Poor  old  Hector,  sitting  in  his  stall 
—  thinks  he's  so  wonderful,  knows  such  a  lot!  Yes, 
Maggie's  qut —  with  her  young  man,  I  suppose.  The 
world's  full  of  women,  with  their  young  men — and  hus- 
bands sitting  in  the  stalls  .  .  .  And  I  suppose  that's 
how  it  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be. 

Walter  (shifting  uneasily).  Don't,  Betty  —  I  don't  like  it. 
I  mean,  he  has  such  confidence  in  us. 

betty.  Of  course  he  has.  And  quite  rightly.  Aren't  you 
his  oldest  friend? 

Walter  (with  something  of  a  groan).  I've  known  him  since 
I  was  seven. 

betty.  The  first  man  he  introduced  me  to  —  his  best  man 
at  the  wedding  —  do  you  remember  coming  to  see  us  during 
the  honeymoon?     I  liked  you  then. 

Walter  (really  shocked).     Betty! 

betty.  I  did.  You  had  a  way  of  squeezing  my  hand. 
.  .  .  And  then  when  we  came  back  here.  You  know 
it  didn't  take  me  long  to  discover 


THE  MAN   IN  THE   STALLS  115 

Walter  (protesting).  I  scarcely  saw  you  the  first  two  or 
three  years! 

betty.  No — you  were  afraid.  Oh  I  thought  you  so  silly! 
(He  suddenly  contrives  to  release  himself  —  gets  up,  and  moves 
to  the  card-table)     Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Walter  (at  the  table,  with  his  back  to  her) .  I  hate  hearing  you 
talk  like  this. 

betty.  Silly  boy!  (She  rises,  and  goes  to  him;  he  has  taken 
a  cigarette  out  of  the  box  on  the  table,  and  stands,  there  with 
his  head  bent,  tapping  the  cigarette  against  his  hand)  Women 
only  talk  "like  this,"  as  you  call  it,  to  their  lovers.  They 
talk  "like  that"  to  their  husbands  —  and  that's  why  the 
husbands  never  know.  That's  why  the  husbands  are 
always  sitting  in  the  stalls,  looking  on.  (She  puts  her  arms 
round  him  again)  Looking  and  not  seeing. 
[She  approaches  her  lips  to  his  —  he  almost  fretf  idly  unclasps 
her  arms. 

Walter.     Betty  —  I  want  to  say  a  —  serious  word    .    .    . 

betty  (looking  fondly  at  him).  Well,  isn't  what  Vm  saying 
serious? 

Walter.     I'm  thirty-eight. 

betty.     Yes.   I'm  only  thirty.   But  I'm  not  complaining. 

Walter.     Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you 

[He  stops. 

BETTY.      What? 

[Walter  looks  at  her  —  tries  to  speak,  but  cannot  —  then  he 
breaks  away,  goes  across  the  room  to  the  fireplace  and  stands 
for  a  moment  looking  into  the  fire.  She  has  remained  where 
she  was,  her  eyes  following  him  wonderingly.  Suddenly  he 
stamps  his  foot  violently. 

Walter.     Damn  it!     DAMN  it! 

betty  (moving  towards  him  in  alarm).   WTiat's  the  matter? 

Walter  (with  a  swift  turn  towards  her).  I'm  going  to  get 
married. 

betty  (stonily,  stopping  by  the  round  table).   You    .    .    . 

Walter  (savagely).  Going  to  get  married,  yes.  Married, 
married ! 


116  THE   MAN   IN  THE  STALLS 

[She  stands  there  and  doesn't  stir  —  doesn't  speak  or  try  to 
speak;  merely  stands  there,  and  looks  at  him,  giving  no  sign. 
Her  silence  irritates  him;  he  becomes  more  and  more  violent, 
as  though  to  give  himself  courage. 

Walter.  You're  wonderful,  you  women  —  you  really  are. 
Always  contrive  to  make  us  seem  brutes,  or  cowards! 
I've  wanted  to  tell  you  this  a  dozen  times  —  I've 
not  had  the  pluck.  Well,  to-day  I  must.  Must,  do 
you  hear  that?  .  .  .  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  say 
something. 

betty  (still  staring  helplessly  at  him).     You    .    .    . 

Walter  (feverishly).  Yes,  I,  I!  Now  it's  out,  at  least  — 
it's  spoken!  I  mean  to  get  married,  like  other  men  — 
fooled,  too,  I  dare  say,  like  the  others  —  at  least  I  deserve 
it !     But  I'm  tired,  I  tell  you  —  tired 

betty.     Of  me? 

Walter.     Tired  of  the  life  I  lead  —  the  beastly,  empty  rooms 

—  the  meals  at  the  Club.    And  I'm  thirty -eight  —  it's  now 
or  never. 

betty  (sloivly).     And  how  about  —  me? 

WALTER.       YOU? 

betty  (passionately).     Yes.     Me.     Me! 

Walter.     You  didn't  think  this  would  last  for  ever? 

betty  (nodding  her  head).  I  did  —  yes  —  I  did.  Why 
shouldn't  it? 

Walter  (working  himself  into  a  fury  again).  Why?  You 
ask  that?  Why?  Oh  yes,  it's  all  right  for  you  —  you've 
your  home  and  your  husband  —  I'm  there  as  an  —  annex. 
To  be  telephoned  to,  when  I'm  wanted,  at  your  beck  and 
call,  throw  over  everything,  come  when  you  whistle.  And 
it's  not  only  that  —  I  tell  you  it  makes  me  feel  —  horrid. 
After  all,  he's  my  —  friend. 

betty.     He  has  been  that  always.     You  didn't  feel  —  horrid 

—  before.    .    .    .    Who  is  she? 

Walter.      (Shortly,    as   he   turns   back  to   the  fire.)      That 

doesn't  matter. 
betty.     Yes,  it  does.     Who? 


THE  MAN  IN  THE   STALLS  117 


Walter  {fretfully).     Oh  why  should  we ■ 

betty.     I  want  to  know  —  I'm  entitled  to  know. 

Walter  {still  with  his  back  to  her).   Mary  Gillingham. 

betty.     Mary  Gillingham! 

Walter  {firmly,  swinging  round  to  her).     Yes. 

betty.     That  child,  that  chit  of  a  girl ! 

Walter.     She's  twenty -three. 

betty.     Whom  I  introduced  you  to  —  my  own  friend? 

Walter  {grumbling).  Y^hat  has  that  to  do  with  it?  And 
besides  .  .  .  {He  suddenly  changes  his  tone,  noticing  how 
calm  she  has  become  —  he  takes  a  step  towards  her,  and  stands 
by  her  side,  at  the  back  of  the  table;  his  voice  becomes  gentle 
and  affectionate)  But  I  say,  really,  you're  taking  it  aw- 
fully well  —  pluckily.  I  knew  you  would  —  I  knew  I  was 
an  ass  to  be  so  —  afraid.  .  .  .  And  look  here,  we'll  al- 
ways be  pals  —  the  very  best  of  pals.  I'll  .  .  .  never 
forget  —  never.  You  may  be  quite  sure  ...  of  that. 
I  want  to  get  married  —  I  do  —  have  a  home  of  my  own,  and 
so  forth  —  but  you'll  still  be  —  just  the  one  woman  I  really 
have  loved  —  the  one  woman  in  my  life  —  to  whom  I  owe  — 
everything. 

betty  {with  a  mirthless  laugh).  Do  you  tell  all  that  —  to 
Mary  Gillingham? 

Walter  {pettishly,  as  he  moves  aioay).  Do  I  —  don't  be  so 
absurd. 

betty.     You  tell  her  she  is  the  only  girl  you  have  loved. 

Walter  {moving  back  to  the  fire,  with  his  back  to  her). 
I  tell  her  —  I  tell  her  —  what  does  it  matter  what  I 
tell  her?  And  one  girl  or  another  —  she  or  some  one 
else 

betty.  But  you  haven't  answered  my  question  —  what's  to 
become  of  me? 

Walter  {angrily,  facing  her).  Become  of  you!  Don't  talk 
such  nonsense.  Because  it  is  —  really  it  is.  You'll  be  as 
you  were.  And  Hector's  a  splendid  chap  —  and  after  all 
we've  been  frightfully  wrong  —  treating  him  infernally 
badly  —  despicably.     Oh  yes,  we  have  —  and  you  know  it. 


118  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

Lord,  there' ve  been  nights  when  I  have  —  but  never  mind 

that  —  that's  all  over!     In  future  we  can  look  him  in  the 

face  without  feeling  guilty  —  we  can 

betty  (quietly).     You  can. 

Walter.     What  do  you  mean? 

betty.  You  can,  because  of  this  girl.     Oh,  I  know,  of  course! 

You'll  come  here  three  or  four  times  —  then  you'll  drop  off 

—  you'll  feel  I'm  not  quite  the  woman  you  want  your  wife 
to  know. 

Walter  {with  genuine  feeling,  as  he  impulsively  steps  towards 
her).  Betty,  Betty,  what  sort  of  cad  do  you  take  me  for? 
What  sort  of  cad,  or  bounder?  Haven't  I  told  you  I'd 
never  forget  —  never?  And  you  think  you'll  pass  out  of 
my  life  —  that  I  want  you  to?  Why,  good  Heaven,  I'll  be 
your  best  friend  as  long  as  I  live.  Friend  —  yes  —  what  I 
always  should  have  been  —  meant  to  be!  And  Hector. 
Why,  Betty,  I  tell  you,  merely  talking  to-night,  as  I've 
done,  has  made  me  feel  —  different  —  sort  of  lifted  —  a  load. 
Because  I've  always  had  it  —  somewhere  deep  down  in  me 

—  when  I've  thought  of  —  him. 
betty  (calmly).     Liar. 
Walter  (falling  back).     Betty! 

betty.  Liar  —  yes.  Why  these  stupid,  silly  lies?  "Always, 
deep  down  in  me!"  Where  was  it,  this  beautiful  feeling, 
when  you  got  me  to  go  to  your  rooms? 

Walter  (harshly).     We  needn't 

betty.    I  liked  you I've  said  that  —  I  liked  you  from  the 

first.     But  I  was  straight  enough.     Liked  you,  of  course 

—  but  I  had  no  idea,  not  the  slightest.  .  .  .  Thought  it 
fun  to  play  the  fool,  flirt  just  a  bit.  But  it  was  you,  you, 
you  who 

Walter  (breaking  in  sulkily  and  stamping  his  foot) .    Never 

mind  about  who  it  was. 
betty  (passionately).     Never  mind!     You  dare! 
Walter    (doggedly).     Yes  —  I  dare.     And  look  here  —  since 

you  force  me  to  it  —  that's  all  rot  —  yes,  it  is  —  just  rot. 

Just  as  you  like  it  now,  hearing  Hector  ask  me  to  stop  with 


THE  MAN   IN   THE  STALLS  119 

you,  and  kissing  me  the  moment  his  back  is  turned  —  so 
you  met  me  halfway,  and  more  than  halfway. 

betty.     You  cur! 

Walter.  That's  what  a  woman  always  says,  when  a  man 
speaks  the  truth.  Because  it  is  the  truth  —  and  you  know 
it.  "The  way  I  squeezed  your  hand!"  D'you  think  I 
meant  to  squeeze  it  —  in  a  way !  Why,  as  there's  a  Heaven 
above  me,  you  were  as  sacred  to  me  —  as  my  own  sister ! 

betty  (quietly,  as  she  sits,  to  right  of  the  table).  What  I'm 
wondering  is  —  you  see,  you're  the  only  lover  I've  had  — 
what  I  wonder  is,  when  a  man  breaks  off,  tells  a  woman  he's 
tired  of  her,  wants  to  get  married  —  does  he  always  abuse 
the  woman 

Walter  (sulkily).     I  haven't 


betty.  Degrade,  and  throw  mud  on,  the  love  she  has  had 
for  him? 

Walter  (with  a  bitter  shrug).     Love 

betty  (passionately,  as  she  springs  to  her  feet).  Love,  love,  yes, 
you  —  cruel  man!  Love,  what  else?  I  adore  you,  don't 
you  know  that?  Live  for  you!  would  give  up  everything 
in  the  world  —  everything,  everything !  And  Walter,  Wal- 
ter! If  it's  only  that  —  that  you  want  a  home  —  well,  let's 
go  off  together.  He'll  divorce  us  —  we  can  get  married. 
Don't  go  away,  and  leave  me  here,  alone  with  him!  I 
couldn't  stand  it  —  Walter,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't ! 
[She  goes  eagerly  to  him,  flings  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
a  dry  sob  bursts  from  her. 

Walter  (very  gently).  Betty,  Betty,  you've  been  so  brave 
.  .  .  Betty,  dear,  the  horrid  things  I've  said  were  only 
to  make  you  angry,  to  make  you  feel  what  a  brute  I  was, 
how  well  you're  rid  of  me.  Oh,  I'm  not  proud  of  myself! 
But  look  here,  we  must  be  sensible  —  we  must,  really.  .  .  . 
You  know,  if  you  were  divorced  —  if  I  were  the  co-respond- 
ent in  a  divorce  case  —  I'd  lose  my  berth,  get  the  sack 

betty  (clinging  to  him).  We  could  go  to  Australia  —  any- 
where   

Walter.     I've  no  money. 


120  THE  MAN   IN  THE  STALLS 

betty  (with  a  sudden  movement,  raising  her  head  and  leaving 
him).     And  Mary  Gillingham  has  lots? 

Walter.     It's  not  for  her  money  that  I 

betty  (with  a  start).     You  love  her? 

Walter  (dropping  his  head,  and  speaking  under  his  breath). 
Yes. 

betty  (wringing  her  hands).     You  do,  you  do? 

Walter.  Yes,  that's  the  truth  —  I  do.  Oh,  Betty,  I'm  so 
frightfully  sorry 

betty  (with  a  groan) .     Then  you  don't  love  me  any  more  .  .  . 

Walter.     It's  not  that.     But  you  see 

betty  (moaning).     You  don't,  you  don't! 

[She  stands  there,  crushed,  overwhelmed,  dry-eyed,  broken 
moans  escaping  from  her;  suddenly  she  hears  a  key  turning 
in  the  lock  of  the  hall-door  outside,  and  rushes  to  the  card- 
table. 

betty.     Hector!   Quick,  quick  —  the  cards! 

[Walter  flies  to  the  table,  and  sits  by  her  side.  He  seizes  one 
pack  and  proceeds  to  shuffle  it,  she  is  dealing  with  the  other. 
All  this  takes  only  a  second.  Hector  comes  in  —  they  both 
spring  up. 

betty.     Hector!     You're  not  ill? 

hector  (kissing  her) .  Play  postponed,  my  child  —  bit  of  luck ! 
When  I  got  to  the  theatre  I  found  that  the  actor-manager's 
car  had  collided  with  a  cab  outside  the  stage-door  —  he  was 
thrown  through  the  window  —  there's  a  magnificent  exit 
for  you!  and  has  been  cut  about  a  bit.  Nothing  serious. 
But  the  play's  postponed  for  a  week.     Bit  of  luck! 

Walter  (sitting).     Not  for  him. 

hector.     Oh  he  has  had  luck  enough  —  tons  of  it!     I'll  get 
into  a  jacket  —  then  we'll  have  some  bridge.     See  what 
progress  you've  made,  Betty! 
[He  hurries  out,  and  closes  the  door. 

betty  (producing  a  little  mirror  from  her  bag,  looking  into  it, 
touching  her  hair).     We  were  only  just  in  time. 

Walter  (eagerly,  as  he  bends  across  the  table).  You're  splen- 
did —  you  are  —  splendid ! 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  121 


betty.  Yes.  All  very  nice  and  comfortable  for  you  —  isn't  it? 

[She  puts  the  mirror  back  into  the  bag. 
Walter  (coaxingly).     Betty. 

betty.  To-morrow  you'll  go  to  her  —  or  to-night  perhaps 

Walter.     To-night  —  ridiculous!     At  this  hour! 

betty.     She's  a  deceitful  little  cat.     I  saw  her  last  week  — 

she  never  told  me 

Walter.     I  don't  think  she  knew.     I  only  proposed  to-day. 
betty  (flinging  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  opening  wide 

eyes).     You  —  proposed  —  to-day! 

Walter  (very  embarrassed).     Yes  —  I  mean 

betty.    You  —  proposed  —  to-day !    And  waited  till  she  had 

accepted  you  —  to  tell  me 

Walter  (eagerly).     Don't  be  so  silly  —  come,  come,  he'll  be 

back  in  a  minute.    .    .    .    And,  believe  me,  I'm  not  worth 

making  a  fuss  about! 
betty  (looking  contemptuously  at  him).     That's  true. 
Walter.     Yes,  it  is,  worse  luck!     I  deserve  all  you've  said 

to  me.     And  you'll  be    .    .    .    much  better    .    .    .    with- 
out me. 
betty.     Better? 
Walter.     Yes,  better,  better  —  any  way  you  choose  to  put 

it!     I'm  a  —  but  never  mind  that!  —  Look  here  — you'd 

like  me  to  stop? 
betty.     He  wants  to  play  bridge. 

Walter.     Don't  you  think  that  I 

betty  (hearing  Hector  coming).     Sh. 

[Hector  comes  in  —  she  is  idly  tossing  the  cards  about.   Hector 

has  put  on  a  smoking- jacket —  he  comes  in,  very  jolly,  fussing 

around,  rubbing  his  hands,  so  glad  to  be  home.    He  sits,  to 

the  right  of  Betty. 
hector.     Now  for  a  game! 

[He  seizes  a  pack,  and  spreads  out  the  cards. 
betty  (leaning  back).     Not  sure  that  I  want  to  play. 
hector.     Don't  be  disagreeable,  Betty!     Why? 
betty  (listlessly,  as  she  rises  and  moves  across  the  room).    No 

fun,  being  three. 


122  THE   MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

hector.     Good  practice  for  you.     Come  on. 

betty  (leaning  against  the  other  table,  and  turning  and  facing 

them).     Besides,  he  has  something  to  tell  you. 
hector.     Walter? 
betty.     Yes. 
hector  (looking  inquiringly  at  Walter).     To  tell  me?    What 

is  it? 
betty.     That  he's  engaged. 

hector  (shouting,  as  he  leans  across  the  table).   Never!   Wal- 
ter!    Engaged?     You? 
Walter  (nervously).     Yes. 
hector    (noisily    and    affectionately).     You    old    scoundrel! 

You  rascal  and  villain!     Engaged  —  and  you  don't  come 

and  tell  me  first !     Well  I  —  am  —  damned ! 
Walter  (trying  to  take  it  gaily).     I  knew  you'd  chaff  me 

about  it. 
hector.     Chaff  you!     Silly  old  coon!  why  I'm  glad!     Of 

course  we  shall  miss  you  —  but  marriage  —  it's  the  only 

thing,   my   boy  —  the  only  thing!     Who  is  she?     Do  I 

know  her? 
Walter   (mumbling,  as  he  fingers  the  cards).     A  friend  of 

Betty's  —  I  fancy  you've  met  her 

hector.     Who? 

betty.     Mary  Gillingham.     We're  the  first  to  know  —  he 

only  proposed  to-day. 
hector.     Gillingham,  Gillingham.    .    .    .    Oh  yes,  I've  seen 

her,  just  seen  her,  but  I  don't  remember.    ...    I  say, 

not  the  daughter  of  the  sealing-wax  man? 
Walter.     Yes. 
hector.     Then  there's  lots  of  tin!     Fine!     Oh  you  artful 

old  dodger!     Is  she  pretty? 

WALTER.       So-SO. 

betty  (still  leaning  against  the  table,  and  looking  at  them  both). 

She's  excessively  pretty.    She  has  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
hector  (chuckling).     And  she  has  caught  old  Wallie.    The 

cynical  old  Wallie  who  sniffed  at  women !  Though  perhaps 

it's  the  money 


THE   MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  123 

betty.     No.     He's  in  love  with  her. 

hector.  That's  good.  I'm  glad.  And  I  congratulate  you 
—  heartily,  my  boy.  (He  seizes  Walter's  hand,  and  wrings 
it)  We  must  drink  to  it!  (lie  gets  up,  goes  to  the  side- 
table,  and  pours  some  whiskey  into  a  tumbler)  Charge 
your  glass,  Walter!  (Walter  rises  and  goes  to  the  side-table) 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  give  you  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom! (He  fills  the  glass  from  the  syphon  and  passes  it  to 
Walter,  then  proceeds  to  fill  his  own)  Betty,  you  must 
join  us. 

betty  (quietly).     No. 

hector.     You  can't  toast  him  in  water,  of  course.     Has  she 
cleared  away  yet?     I'll  get  you  some  Hock. 
[He  puts  his  glass  down  and  moves  to  the  door  at  back. 

betty.     Don't  be  so  silly.     I  won't  drink  at  all. 

hector  (amazed).     Not  to  old  Walter? 

betty  (steadily).     No. 

hector.     Why? 

betty  (almost  jeeringly) .  Because  —  old  Walter  —  has  been 
my  lover. 

hector  (stopping,  and  staring  at  her).     What? 

betty  (calmly,  looking  full  at  him).  My  lover  .  .  .  these 
last  two  years. 

hector  (staring  stupidly  at  her).     He  has  been 

betty  (impatiently,  as  she  taps  the  floor  with  her  foot).  Yes, 
yes.  How  often  must  I  tell  you?  My  lover  —  don't  you 
know  what  that  means?  Why  do  you  stare  at  me  with 
those  fat  goggle-eyes  of  yours?  He  has  been  my  lover  — 
and  now  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  this  girl  and  means  to 
marry  her.     That's  all. 

hector  (turning  towards  Walter,  who  hasnt  stirred  from  the 
side-table).     What?     You? 
[Walter  remains  motionless  and  silent. 

hector  (in  muffled  tones,  scarcely  able  to  speak).     You!     It's 
true  what  this  woman  says? 

betty  (contemptuously) .     This  woman!     Don't  be  so  melo- 
dramatic!    Have  you  forgotten  my  name? 


124  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

hector  {turning  fiercely  to  hery  roaring  madly).  Silence, 
Jezebel!  (She  shrinks  back,  in  alarm,  towards  the  fire) 
Your  name!  Wait  a  bit,  I'll  tell  you!  (He  takes  a  step  to- 
wards her  —  she  crouches  in  terror  against  the  wall)  You 
shall  hear  what  your  name  is!  Just  now  I'm  dealing  with 
him.  (He  swings  round  to  Walter)  You  there,  you  skunk 
and  thief!  You,  you  lying  hound!  I  was  your  best 
friend.  So  you've  taken  my  wife,  have  you?  And  now 
mean  to  go  off  and  marry  this  girl.  That's  it?  Oh,  it's 
so  simple !  Here  —  come  here  ■ —  sit  down.  Sit  down,  I  tell 
you.  Here,  in  this  chair.  Shall  I  have  to  drag  you  to  it? 
I  want  to  keep  my  hands  off  you.  Here.  (Walter  has 
moved  slowly  towards  him.  Hector  has  hanged  down  a  chair 
behind  the  centre  table,  Walter  sits  in  it  —  Hector  speaks  over 
his  shoulder  to  Betty)     And  you  —  fetch  pen  and  ink  and 


paper 

betty  (in  abject  panic).     Hector 

hector  (turning  fiercely  and  scolding  at  her).  If  you  speak 
to  me  I'll  brain  you  too.  Just  you  go  in  there  and  fetch 
the  things.  D'you  hear?  Go.  (She  moves  into  the  other 
room.  Hector  swings  round  to  Walter)  As  for  you,  you're 
a  scoundrel.  A  rogue,  a  thief,  a  liar,  a  traitor.  Of  the 
very  worst  kind,  the  blackest.  Not  an  ordinary  case  of  a 
husband  and  wife  —  I  trusted  you  —  you  were  my  best 
friend.  You  spawn,  you  thing  of  the  gutter,  you  foul- 
hearted,  damnable  slug! 

[Betty  comes  back,  dragging  her  feet,  carrying  paper  and  en- 
velopes and  a  stylograph  —  she  puts  them  on  the  table. 

hector.   Not  that  stylograph  —  that's  mine  —  his  dirty  hands 
shan't  touch  it  —  I  could  never  use  it  again.     Fetch  your 
pen  —  yours  —  you  belong  to  him,  don't  you?     Go  in  and 
fetch  it.     D'you  hear? 
[Betty  goes  into  the  inner  room  again. 

hector.  My  wife.  And  you  the  man  I've  done  more  for 
than  for  any  one  else  in  the  world.  The  man  I  cared  for, 
you  low  dog.  Used  my  house  —  came  here  because  it  was 
dull  at  the  Club  —  and  took  my  wife?     I  don't  know  why 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS  125 

I  don't  kill  you.      I've  the  right.      But  I  won't.     You 

shall    pay    for    it,    my    fine    fellow  —  you    are    going    to 

pay  —  now. 

[Betty  brings  a  pen  and  an  inkstand;  she  places  them  on  the 

table;  Hector  seizes  them  and  pushes  them  in  front  of  Walter. 

Betty  slinks  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  stands  by  the 

sofa. 

iiector  (to  Walter).  Now  you  write.  You  hear?  You 
write  what  I  dictate.  Word  for  word.  What's  the  old 
brute's  name? 

Walter.     Whose? 

hector.  Whose!  Her  father,  the  sealing-wax  man,  old 
Gillingham? 

Walter  (staring).     Gillingham? 

hector.     Gillingham.     Yes.     What  is  it? 

Walter.     You  want  me  to  write  to  him? 

hector  (nodding).  To  him.  Who  else?  A  confession? 
I've  had  that.     His  name? 

Walter  (dropping  the  pen  and  half  rising) .    I  won't 

hector  (springing  upon  him  in  a  mad  fury,  and  forcing  him 
back  into  the  chair).  You  won't,  you  dog!  You  dare  say 
that—  to  me!  By  Heaven,  you  will!  You'll  lick  the  dust 
off  this  floor,  if  I  tell  you!  You'll  go  on  your  hands  and 
knees,  and  crawl !  Sit  down,  you !  Sit  down  and  take  up 
your  filthy  pen.  So.  (Thoroughly  cowed,  Walter  has  taken 
up  the  pen  again)  And  now  —  his  name.  Don't  make  me 
ask  you  again,  I  tell  you,  don't.     What  is  it? 

Walter.     Richard. 

hector.  Very  well,  Richard.  So  write  that  down.  To 
Richard  Gillingham.  I  have  to-day  proposed  to  your 
daughter,  and  she  has  accepted  me.  Got  that?  She  has 
accepted  me.  But  I  can't  marry  her  —  can't  marry  her  — 
because  I  have  seduced  the  wife  of  my  friend  Hector 
Allen 

Walter  (appealingly,  dropping  his  pen).     Hector! 

hector  (frantically  gripping  Walter  by  the  throat,  till  he  takes 
up  his  pen  again).     The  wife  of  my  friend  Hector  Allen  — 


126  THE  MAN  IN  THE  STALLS 

write  it  —  and  plainly,  you  hound,  plainly  —  so  —  and  be- 
cause I  am  taking  the  woman  away  with  me  to-night. 

betty  (with  a  loud  cry).     Hector! 

hector  (over  his  shoulder,  watching  Walter  write).  Silence, 
over  there,  you !  Hold  your  tongue !  Go  into  your  room 
and  put  on  your  things  —  we've  done  with  you  here !  Take 
what  you  want  —  I  don't  care — you  don't  show  your  face 
here  again.  And  you  —  (he  taps  his  clenched  hand  against 
Walter's  arm)  write.  What  are  you  stopping  for?  How 
far  have  you  got?  (He  peers  over  Walter's  shoulder) 
Because — I — am — taking — the — woman — away — with 
—  me  —  to-night. 

betty  (beside  herself,  wringing  her  hands).  Hector,  Hec- 
tor  

hector  (savagely,  as  he  makes  a  half -turn  towards  her).  You 
still  there?  Wait  a  bit.  I'll  come  to  you,  when  I've  fin- 
ished with  him.  If  you  haven't  gone  and  put  on  your 
things,  you  shall  go  off  without  them.  Into  the  street. 
You'll  find  other  women  there  like  you.  (He  turns  back 
to  Walter)  Here,  you,  have  you  written?  (He  looks  over 
Walters  shoulder)     Go  on  —  I'm  getting  impatient.     Go 

on,  I  tell  you.     I  —  am  —  taking  —  the 

[Walter  is  slowly  writing  down  the  words,  Hector  standing 
over  him;  Betty  suddenly  bursts  into  a  peal  of  wild,  uproarious 
laughter,  and  lets  herself  fall  into  a  chair  to  the  left  of  tlie 
card-table. 

hector  (madly).     You! 

[He  leaves  Walter,  and  almost  springs  at  her. 

betty  (brimrning  with  merriment).  Oh,  you  old  donkey! 
How  we  have  pulled  your  leg! 

hector  (staring  at  her,  stopping  dead  short).     You 

betty  (through  her  laughter,  choking).  Hector,  Hector!  Con- 
ventional situations!  The  usual  stodge!  The  lover  and 
husband!  You  goose,  you  wonderful  old  goose! 
[Walter,  with  a  mighty  ejfort,  has  pulled  himself  together,  and 
roars  with  laughter  too.  He  jumps  up.  Hector  is  standing 
there  blinking,  paralysed. 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  STALLS  127 


Walter  (merrily,  to  Betty).  Oh  really,  you  shouldn't.  You've 
given  it  away  too  soon! 

betty.  Too  soon!  He'd  have  strangled  us.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  tiger? 

Walter  (chuckling  hugely).  He  didn't  give  the  lover  much 
chance  to  stand  up  to  him,  did  he? 

betty.  And  loasn't  he  original!  Dog,  hound,  villain, 
traitor! 

Walter.  To  say  nothing  of  Jezebel!  Though,  between 
ourselves,  I  think  he  meant  Messalina! 

betty.  And  I  was  to  go  into  the  street.  But  he  did  let  me 
fill  my  bag! 

Walter.  I  think  the  playwrights  come  out  on  top,  I  do 
indeed.  (He  goes  to  Hector,  and  stands  to  left  of  him) 
Hector,  old  chap,  here's  the  letter! 

betty  (going  to  the  other  side  of  Hector,  and  dropping  a  low 
curtsey) .  And  please,  Mr.  Husband,  was  it  to  be  a  big  bag, 
or  a  small  bag,  and  might  I  have  taken  the  silver  teapot? 
[Hector  has  been  standing  there  stupid,  dazed,  dumbfounded, 
too  bewildered  for  his  mind  to  act  or  thoughts  to  come  to  him; 
he  suddenly  bursts  into  a  roar  of  Titanic,  overwhelming 
laughter.  He  laughs,  and  laughs,  staggers  to  the  sofa,  falls 
on  it,  rocks  and  roars  till  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks.  He 
sways  from  side  to  side,  unable  to  control  himself —  his  laughter 
is  so  colossal  that  the  infection  catches  the  others;  theirs  be- 
comes genuine  too. 

betty  (with  difficulty,  trying  to  control  herself).  The  letter! 
Old  Gillingham!     "His  name,  scoundrel,  his  name!" 

Walter  (gurgling).  With  his  hand  at  my  throat!  Sit  there, 
villain,  and  write! 

betty.  "I'll  deal  with  you  presently!  Wait  till  I've  fin- 
ished with  him!" 

Walter.  "Into  the  street!"?  At  least,  they  do  usually  say 
"into  the  night!" 

hector  (rubbing  his  eyes  and  panting  for  breath) .  Oh,  you 
pair  of  blackguards!  Too  bad  —  no,  really  too  bad!  It 
was!     I  fell  in,  I  did!     Oh,  Lord,  oh,  Lord,  what  a  night- 


128  THE  MAN  IN  THE   STALLS 

mare!  But  it  wasn't  right,  really  it  wasn't  —  no  really! 
My  Lord,  how  I  floundered  —  head  and  shoulders  —  swal- 
lowed it  all!  Comes  of  reading  that  muck  every  day  — 
never  stopped  to  think!  I  didn't!  Walter,  old  chap! 
(He  holds  out  his  hand)  Betty!  My  poor  Betty!  (He 
draws  her  towards  him)     The  things  I  said  to  you ! 

betty  (carelessly  eluding  the  caress).  At  least  admit  that 
you're  rather  hard  on  the  play  writing  people! 

hector  (getting  up  and  shaking  himself).  Oh,  they  be 
blowed !  Well,  you  have  had  a  game  with  me !  (He  shakes 
himself  again).  Brrrrr!  Oh,  my  Lord!  What  I  went 
through ! 

betty.  It  was  a  lark!  you  should  have  seen  yourself!  Your 
eyes  starting  out  of  your  head!  You  looked  like  a  mur- 
derer ! 

hector.     By  Jove,  and  I  felt  it !     For  two  pins  I'd  have 

betty.     And  Mary  Gillingham!     That's  the  funniest  part! 
That  you  could  have  thought  he  was  engaged  —  to  her! 
[Involuntarily  the  smile  dies  away  on  Walter  s  face;  he  turns 
and  stares  at  her;  she  goes  on  calmly. 

betty.  When  she  happens  to  be  the  one  girl  in  this  world 
he  can't  stand! 

Walter  (with  a  movement  that  he  cant  control).     Betty! 

betty  (turning  smilingly  to  him).  No  harm  in  my  telling 
Hector  —  he  scarcely  knows  her!  (She  swings  round  to 
Hector  again)  Why,  Walter  simply  loathes  the  poor  girl! 
That's  what  made  it  so  funny!  (At  the  mere  thought  of  it 
she  bursts  out  laughing  again,  and  goes  on  speaking  through 
her  laughter)  And  I  tell  you  —  if  you  ever  hear  he's  en- 
gaged to  her  —  why,  you  can  believe  the  rest  of  the  story 
too! 

hector  (laughing  heartily  as  he  pats  Walter  on  the  shoulder). 
Poor  old  Walter!  And,  d'you  know,  I  was  quite  pleased 
at  the  thought  of  his  getting  married!  I  was!  (He  turns 
to  him)  But  it's  better,  old  chap,  for  us  —  we'd  have  missed 
you  —  terribly!  (With  another  pat  on  Walter's  shoulder,  he 
goes  to  the  fire,  and  drops  in  the  Utter)     Mustn't  leave  that 


THE  MAN  IN  THE   STALLS  129 

lying  about!     {He  turns)     Well,  by  Jove,  if  any  one  had 

told  me.    .    .    .    And  drinking  to  him,  and  all ! 
betty.     If  you'll  fetch  me  that  glass  of  Hock  now,  I  will 

drink  to  him,  Hector.     To  Walter,  the  Bachelor! 
hector  {beaming).     So  we  will!     Good.     I'll  get  it. 

[He  bustles  into  the  dining  room. 
betty  {moving  swiftly  to  Walter).     Well,  now's  your  time. 

One  thing  or  the  other. 
Walter  {savagely).     You  fiend! 

betty.     I'll  go  and  see  her  to-morrow  —  see  her  constantly  — 
Walter.     Why  are  you  doing  this? 
betty.     You've  ruined  my  life  and  his.     At  least,  you  shan't 

be  happy. 
Walter.     And  you  imagine  I'll  come  back  to  you  —  that  we'll 

go  on,  you  and  I? 
betty   {scornfully).     No  —  don't  be  afraid!     You've  shown 

yourself  to  me  to-day.     That's  all  done  with  —  finished. 

His  friend  now  —  with  the  load  off  you  —  but  never  her 

husband.     Never! 

[Hector  comes  bustling  back,  with  the  bottle  of  Hock,  and  a 

wine-glass  that  he  gives  to  Betty  —  she  holds  it,  and  he  fills  it 

from  the  bottle. 
hector.     Here  you  are,  my  girl  —  and  now,  where's  my 

whiskey?     {He  trots  round  to  the  side  table,  finds  his  glass, 

and  Walter's  —  hands  one  to  Walter)     Here,  Wallie  —  yours 

must  be  the  one  that's  begun  —  I  didn't  have  time  to  touch 

mine!     Here.     {Walter  takes  it)     And  forgive  me,  old  man, 

for  thinking,  even  one  minute  —  {He  wrings  him  by  the  hand) 

Here's  to  you,   old   friend.     And   Betty,   to   you!     Oh, 

Lord,  I  just  want  this  drink! 
betty  {in  cold,  clear  tones,  as  she  holds  up  her  glass).     To 

Walter,  the  Bachelor! 

[She  drains  her  glass;  Walter  has  his  moment's  hesitation; 

he  drinks,  and  with  tremendous  effort  succeeds  in  composing 

his  face. 
hector  {gaily).     To  Walter,  the  Bachelor!     {He  drinks  his 

glass  to  the  dregs  and  puts  it  down)     And  now  —  for  a  game. 


130  THE  MAN  IN  THE   STALLS 


Walter.     I  think  I 

hector  (coaxingly).  Sit  down,  laddie  —  just  one  rubber. 
It's  quite  early.  Do.  There's  a  good  chap.  (They  all 
sit:  Hector  at  back,  Betty  to  the  left  of  him,  Walter  to  the  right 
—  he  spreads  out  the  cards —  they  draw  for  partners)  As  we 
are  —  you  and  Betty  —  I've  got  the  dummy.  (He  shuffles 
the  cards  —  Betty  ads  —  he  begins  to  deal)  That's  how  I  like 
it  —  one  on  each  side  of  me.  Also  I  like  having  dummy. 
Now,  Betty,  play  up.  Oh,  Lord,  how  good  it  is,  how  good ! 
A  nightmare,  I  tell  you  —  terrible!  And  really  you  must 
forgive  me  for  being  such  an  ass.  But  the  way  you  played 
up,  both  of  you!  My  little  Betty  —  a  Duse,  that's  what 
she  is  —  a  real  Duse !  (He  gathers  up  his  cards)  And  the 
gods  are  kind  to  me  —  I've  got  a  hand,  I  tell  you!  I  call 
No  TRUMPS! 

[He  beams  at  them  —  they  are  placidly  sorting  their  cards.  He 
puts  his  hand  down  and  proceeds  to  look  at  his  dummy,  as 
the  curtain  falls. 

CURTAIN 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

FREDERICK  FENN  and  RICHARD  PRYCE 

Frederick  Fenn  was  born  at  Bishop  Stortford  in  1868. 
He  is  best  known  as  an  adapter  of  plays  and  the  author  of 
a  number  of  successful  one-act  and  full-length  plays.  His 
first  successful  play,  "Judged  by  Appearances",  was  pro- 
duced in  1902,  by  the  popular  actor,  James  Welch.  "  'Op- 
o'-Me-Thumb",  written  in  collaboration  with  Richard  Pryce, 
is  the  best-known  work  of  either  dramatist.  It  owes  its 
popularity  primarily  to  the  fact  that  it  has  often  been  acted 
in  this  country  by  Maude  Adams. 

Richard  Pryce  was  born  at  Boulogne,  France.  Like 
Frederick  Fenn,  with  whom  he  collaborated  in  several  plays, 
he  has  adapted  plays  and  is  the  author  of  a  few  original 
dramas.     He  has  also  written  half  a  dozen  novels. 

PLAYS  (Frederick  Fenn) 

Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 

*Judged  by  Appearances  Amasis  (1906) 

(1902)  *His  Child  (1906) 

*The  Honorable  Ghost  (1902)  (In     collaboration     with 

A  Married  Woman  (1902)  Richard  Pryce) 

Saturday  to  Monday  (1903)  *The  Nelson  Touch  (1908) 

(In  collaboration   with  A  Welsh  Sunset  (1908) 

Richard  Pryce)  •  Liz  the  Mother  (1909) 

A  Scarlet  Flower  (1903)  (In   collaboration  with 

The  Age  of  Innocence  (1904)  Richard  Pryce) 

*'Op-o'-Me-Thumb  (1904)  The  Gay  Lady  Doctor  (1912) 

(In  collaboration  with  (In  collaboration  with 

Richard  Pryce)  Desmond  Donovan) 
*The  Convict  on  the  Hearth 
(1906) 


132  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

PLAYS  (Richard  Pryce) 

A  Privy  Council  (1905)  (In  collaboration  with 

(In  collaboration  with  Arthur  Morrison) 

W.  P.  Drury)  Little  Mrs.  Cummin  (1910) 

The  Dumb  Cake  (1907)  The  Visit  (1910) 

"  'Op-o'-Me-Thumb",  "Little  Mrs.  Cummin",  "Privy 
Council",  "Dumb  Cake",  "The  Convict  on  the  Hearth", 
"The  Nelson  Touch",  and  "The  Visit"  are  published  by 
Samuel  French,  New  York. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  FREDERICK  FENN  and  RICHARD  PRYCE 


"  'Op-o'-Me-Thumb "  was  first  produced  at  London  in 
1904. 

Characters 

Madame  Jeanne  Marie  Napoleon  de  Gallifet  Didier 

Clem  (Mrs.)  Galloway 

Rose  Jordan 

Celeste 

Amanda  Afflick 

Horace  Greensmith 


Copyright,  1904,  by  Samuel  French. 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  Samuel  French. 

Caution.  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  notified  that  this  play  is  fully 
copyrighted  under  the  existing  laws  of  the  United  States  Government,  and  nobody  is 
allowed  to  do  this  play  without  first  having  obtained  permission  of  Samuel  French, 
28  West  38th  St.,  New  York  City. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Scene.  Working  room  at  Madame  Didier's  Laundry  in 
Soho.  In  front  of  the  large  shop  window  that  gives  on  to  the 
street  there  hangs  a  lace  curtain.  Upon  the  glass  of  the  upper 
half  of  a  door  "Madame  Didier,  Blanchisserie  Franqaise"  may 
be  read  backwards. 

It  is  Saturday  evening  before  an  August  bank-holiday. 
Madame  with  goffering  iron  is  finishing  a  cap  at  stage  back  left. 
Rose  Jordan  stands  on  a  chair  putting  paper  packets  of  collars 
and  cuffs  into  pigeon  holes.  Clem  (Mrs.)  Galloway  is  mending 
socks,  etc.,  at  small  table  right.  Celeste  is  sitting  on  a  centre  table 
marking  off  collars,  etc.,  in  account  book,  or  slipping  pink  tissue 
paper  into  a  stack  of  shirts,  and  singing  as  she  swings  her  feet. 
celeste.  Eve  in  her  garden  she  was  a  lady, 

She  never  grew  old  n'  fady. 

She  might  'a'  bin  there  to-day-dy, 

But  she  was  inquisitive. 

I'd  never  'a  bin  s'  crazy, 

You  wait  till  I'm  'alf  a  daisy, 

See  me  with  a  chance  to  be  lazy. 
I'd  keep  you  all  alive ! 

madame.     You  have  make  out  zose  bills,  Celeste? 
celeste  (nodding). 

Oh  wait  till  I'm  'alf  a  daisy, 
Snakes!   I'd  send  'em  all  back  to  blazy. 
You  give  me  the  chance  to  be  lazy, 
I'd 

clem.     Couldn't  be  much  lazier  than  what  you  are  now,  I 

should  think  —  daisy  or  no  daisy. 
celeste.     Couldn't  I?     I'd  have  a  bit  of  a  try ! 

(Resumes) 


136  '  OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Oh  when  I'm  a  real  lady, 

In  a  barouche  I  shall  parady  —  {She  breaks  off  sud- 
denly)    Where's  Amanda? 

clem  (sarcastically).     Want  a  little  'elp  with  y'  singin'? 

celeste.     Where  is  Amanda? 

rose.     Gone  to  Strahan's. 

celeste.     What  for? 

rose.     They  never  sent  them  things  they  wrote  about. 

celeste  (stopping  in  her  work).  Do  they  expect  us  to  do 
'em  this  time  o'  day ! 

madame  (coming  down).  No.  No.  Like  always  you  ex- 
cite yourself  for  nothing.  Go  on.  Go  on.  What  is  Mon- 
day? 'Oliday,  is  it  not?  Very  well.  They  close.  I 
close.  I  'ave  the  things  'ere  for  Tuesday,  hein?  You  mind 
your  business.     Always  wanting  to  know. 

celeste  (appeased).  Well,  you  never  do  know  with  shops. 
It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time.  It  was  Strahan  wanted 
the  collars  dressed  in  two  hours  last  week,  wasn't  it, 
for  some  customer  or  other.  I  wouldn't  'a'  done  'em, 
I  know.  Oh  ho.  (She  hums  to  herself  for  a  moment  or  two) 
Well,  well.  When  I'm  married  and  'ave  a  'usband  to 
keep  me  — 

madame.  Keep  you!  Bah,  you  know  nothing,  you.  A 
man  wants  a  wife  who  will  work.  Mon  Dieu,  if  one  is  to 
be  lazy  it  will  not  be  the  wife.     Look  at  me. 

clem  (mrs.)  galloway  (who  has  gone  up  to  table  at  back  to 
fetch  more  things  and  who  now  comes  down).  You're  right, 
Madam.  'Usbands  is  all  very  well  in  their  way,  as  I 
should  be  the  first  to  deny,  me  of  course  bein'  different 
and  independent  so  to  speak,  but  when  it  comes  to  which 
is  to  do  the  work 

celeste.     Listen  to  Clem. 

clem.  Not  so  much  of  y'r  Clem.  Mrs.  Galloway,  if  you 
please.  You  seem  to  forget  who  I  am.  I've  got  me  ring, 
I  'ave,  and  me  lines  if  I  do  come  'ere  to  oblige  —  Mr.  Gal- 
loway 'avin'  poor  'ealth  —  besides  private  means,  bein'  a 
pensioneer. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  137 

celeste.  Pensioneer!  Four  pence  a  day,  isn't  it,  dear? 
—  and  gone  before  twelve,  they  tell  me,  at  the  Pig  or 
Whistle.  A  fine  pensioneer !  You  wait  until  I  bring  mine 
along. 

clem.  Yes,  I  daresay  there'll  be  some  waitin'  to  do.  What's 
your  'usband  goin'  to  be  if  I  may  make  so  bold  to 
inquire? 

celeste.  'Aven't  quite  made  up  me  mind.  But  I'm  just 
about  tired  of  this.  I'm  not  sure  as  I  shan't  go  and  be 
a  actress  for  a  change,  and  stand  in  the  limelight  and  'ave 
bokays  thrown  at  me  —  'ere  chuck  us  some  of  those  things, 
Rose  —  (begins  to  work  frantically)  —  and  —  and  'ave  lords 
waitin'  at  the  stage  door  to  take  the  'orses  out  of  me 
carriage 

clem  (laughs).  You'll  be  wantin'  to  be  a  child  of  myst'ry 
next,  like  Amanda. 

celeste  (pausing,  seriously).     Do  you  think  she  is? 

clem.     Is  what? 

celeste.  A  child  of  myst'ry  —  what  she  says  I  mean.  You 
know  —  all  that  about  'er  father  and  about  them  jewels  as 
somebody  gives  'er.  Do  you  know  she  washed  that  there 
shirt  again  last  week.  She  says  it'll  be  fetched  one  of 
these  days  and  then  there'll  be  a  surprise  for  us. 

rose.  Surprise!  Garn!  A  little  image  like  'er?  Ain't 
room  for  much  up  'er  sleeve.     Little  'aporth  o'  mis'ry! 

celeste  (thoughtfully).  Well,  I  don't  know.  Things  do 
'appen,  y'  know.  I  wonder  'oo  'er  father  reely  is.  (Mys- 
tified) She's  so  close  about  'im,  ain't  she?  And  then  there 
is  that  shirt  —  there's  no  goin'  against  that. 

clem  (shortly).     Lots  of  customers  forgets  things. 

celeste.  Yes,  but  the  care  she  takes  of  it.  It's  bin  'ere 
best  part  of  a  year,  and  I  don't  know  'ow  many  times  she 
'asn't  dressed  it.     There  may  be  something  in  it,  y'  know. 

rose  (pulling  a  long  paper  parcel  out  of  one  of  the  large  pigeon 
holes  —  reading).  "Mr.  'Orris  Greensmith,  to  be  called 
for."  (Opening  the  paper  a  little  and  looking  inside) 
Blest  if  I  don't  believe  she's  done  it  up  again.     It  'ad  pink 


138  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 


paper  in  last  week  and  now  it's  blue.     'Ve  we  got  any  blue 
paper,  madam?     No.     I  thought  not. 

clem  (interested).     She  must  'a'  bought  it. 

celeste.     There. 

rose.  Well!  It'll  never  be  fetched.  If  'e's  'er  mash  why 
doesn't  'e  come  'ere  and  fetch  it? 

celeste.  She  says  it's  a  sort  of  a  token,  see?  while  'e's 
away.  Something  to  'old  by,  she  says.  And  then,  'e  does 
send  'er  things. 

clem  (weightily).     'As  anybody  seen  'em? 

celeste.  N-no,  but  there  was  a  brooch,  I  b'lieve,  and  a 
necktie. 

clem  (coming  to  the  table  centre  to  fetch  scissors  left  and 
pausing  in  her  work  to  gossip).  Well,  why  doesn't  she  wear 
'em?     That's  it,  y'  see.     Why  doesn't  she  wear  'em? 

celeste  (as  if  struck  by  this  for  the  first  time).  Yes.  Why 
doesn't  she? 

clem  (sits  at  table  right  and  talks  confidentially).  That's 
where  the  test  comes  in.  Why  doesn't  she  wear  'em  — 
'stead  of  that  bit  of  crape,  say?  Not  that  I've  anything 
to  say  against  that.  She  'as  plenty  of  deaths  in  'er 
family  —  that  I  will  say  for  'er. 

rose  (contemptuously).  Lots  of  people  'as  relations  die. 
Any  one  can. 

clem  (generously).  No,  give  everybody  their  due,  I  say, 
and  she  does  'ave  her  afflictions.  I've  been  bereaved 
meself  and  I  know  what  it  is. 

rose.  Crape's  cheap  enough.  And  she  don't  ask  us  to 
none  of  'er  funerals. 

clem  (forgetting  Amanda  and  showing  an  inclination  to  lose 
herself  in  pleasant  retrospect) .  Fun'rals  —  the  f un'rak  I've 
been  to  in  my  time!  There  was  me  sister's  'usband  (she 
goes  back  to  her  place  right  as  she  speaks)  —  all  my  family's 
married  well,  that  I  am  thankful  to  say  —  and  when  she 
lost  'im  she  done  the  thing  'andsome  I  tell  y'.  (To 
Celeste)  Gimme  them  vests  —  no  —  there  by  the  socks. 
Under  y'  nose,   stupid!     There  was  as  many  as  three 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  139 

mournin'  coaches  an'  a  'earse  with  plumes  —  and  the 
'atbands !  —  well !  —  and  afterwards  we  — 

celeste.  That'll  do,  Clem.  We  know  all  about  that  — 
and  y'  cousins  too  as  died  at  'Ighb'ry.  It's  Amanda  I'm 
talking  about,  not  you.  I  wonder  whether  she  could  show 
us  one  of  them  presents.  Good  mind  to  ask  'er.  Why 
don't  she  come  in? 

rose.     Gone  a  errand,  I  tell  y'. 

celeste.  Well,  she  might  be  back  be  now,  I  should  think. 
Talk  about  'ares  and  tortoise  shells!  I'd  'a'  done  it  on 
me  'ead.     She's  a  fair  crawler,  Amanda  is. 

rose  (laconically).     Legs  is  short. 

celeste.  So's  time,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  'ere  all 
night. 

madame  (coming  down).  She  is  little,  but  she  is  good.  She 
work.  She  does  not  talk,  talk,  talk.  She  is  not  singing 
when  she  should  be  working.  Where  should  I  be,  me, 
with  another  like  you?  And  this  Saturday  and  I  forced 
to  go  out  at  five!  Five,  mon  Dieu,  and  it  wants  but  ten 
minutes. 
[She  goes  up  left  right. 

celeste  (absently).  I  wonder  whether  she's  got  anybody 
to  take  'er  out  a  Monday.     Think  she  'as? 

rose.  It'd  be  a  funny  sort  o'  feller  as  'd  want  to.  (She 
looks  over  her  shoulder  towards  the  glass  door)  'Ere  she  is. 
'Ere's  Mandy. 

[The  door  right  is  pushed  open  and  Amanda  Afflick  comes  in 
backwards  pidling  after  her  a  washing  basket  nearly  as  large 
as  herself.  She  is  an  odd,  forlorn  looking  little  figure  with 
big  eyes  and  a  pathetic  expression.  She  has  yet  an  air  of 
being  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself. 

rose.     Well,  Craipe. 

madame.     Ah,  you  have  come  back.     You  have  brought  the 
money.     (Amanda  hands  her  a  paper  and  some  loose  change) 
That  is  right.     Now  I  may  go  and  you  will  help  these 
good-for-nothings  to  finish. 
[She  takes  the  cap  on  its  stand  and  puts  it  on  end  of  table 


140  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

back,  then  goes  into  inner  room  left  whence  she  returns  a  mo- 
ment or  two  later  with  her  cloak. 

celeste  (to  Amanda).  Didn't  'appen  to  meet  ch'  father, 
did  y'? 

clem.  We  thought  perhaps  as  you  was  gone  s'  long  that 
you'd  ran  away  with  that  mash  o'  yours  —  'im  as  goes  with- 
out 'is  shirt.     'Orris  Whatsaname. 

amanda.  Oh.  Didy'?  (She  sidles  past  Clem  who  is  leaning 
over  a  basket  and  giving  her  an  intentional  "shove,"  sends  her 
sprawling  across  it)  Now  then,  Mrs.,  can't  y'  make  room 
for  a  lady? 

clem  (getting  up,  and  angry).  They  don't  teach  y'  manners 
in  the  work'us,  do  they,  Clumsy? 

amanda.     You'll  find  out  when  you  get  there,  dear. 

rose  (linking  arms  with  Celeste  left,  coming  towards  Amanda 
in  front  of  table  center)     We've  got  a  new  bow  to-day. 
[She  points  to  a  band  of  black  crape  round  Amanda's  arm. 

celeste.     So  she  'as!     Where  did  y'  git  that,  S'rimp? 

[Amanda  arranges  the  bow  on  her  arm,  pulling  out  the  ends. 

amanda.  I've  been  doin'  a  little  shoppin'  this  afternoon, 
and  I  bought  this  Rembrandt  in  case  you  was  took  off 
sudden,  S'leste.  S'leste!  (She  gives  a  little  chuclde)  It 
is  a  name,  ain't  it?  Where  did  y'  git  it?  Off  the  front  of 
a  shop,  eh? 

Pretty  Celeste 

'Ad  a  very  weak  chest. 

If  'er  chest  'd  been  stronger 

Me  tale  'd  been  longer. 

[She  hoists  herself  on  the  table.     Clem  and  Rose  laugh  shrilly. 

Celeste  flushes. 
celeste.     Weak  chest  y'self.     What's  wrong  with  my  chest? 
amanda  (sitting  on  table).     Bit  narrer,  dear,  isn't  it?     But 

p'raps  it's  the  cut  o'  y'  bodice.     Some  of  those  bodice- 

'ands  can  spoil  things  a  treat,  can't  they? 
celeste.     What  do  y'  know  about  it.     You  shut  y'  face. 

You!  you  ain't  got  no  figger,  you  never  dresses,  you  ain't 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  141 

got  enough  'air  to  go  in  a  locket,  and  every  feller  I  know 
says  as  you're  a  bloomin'  little  monkey  without  a  stick. 
So,  now,  there! 

Madame  (bustling  into  outdoor  things  and  interposing  to  pre- 
vent the  quarrel  developing).  Now,  now,  now!  One  would 
think  that  in  life  there  was  nothing  to  do.  You  quarrel, 
you  talk,  you  sing.  Do  I  sing?  Mon  Dieu,  no.  Celeste 
she  sing  till  she  make  my  'ead  ache,  and  then  it  is  you. 
(To  Amanda,  icho  gets  off  table)  And  you  all  talk,  talk, 
talk  like  I  don't  know  wThat.  For  shame.  Now  I  go,  and 
you,  Celeste,  will  go  to  Madame  Jones  with  'er  things  — 
they  are  listed,  eh?  —  and  Mrs.  Galloway  will  take  M. 
Gigot  'is  waistcoat,  and  Rose,  you  will  not  forget  Miss 
Smeet's  dress.  She  must  'ave  it  to-night.  Now  quick  all 
of  you.  Amanda  will  wait  for  me.  I  shall  not  be  long. 
Now  attention!  No  more  singing,  do  you  'ear?  You  can 
sing  if  you  want,  in  the  street,  and  then  you  will  be  run  in 
for  drink  to  punish  you. 
[She  goes  out  left.     Rose  jumps  off  her  chair. 

rose.  Is  she  gone?  Lord,  I  wish  it  was  Monday!  I  shan't 
git  up  all  to-morrow  so's  to  rest  meself.  Do  'ope  it'll  be 
fine. 

clem.  I  expect  it  will.  Makes  such  a  difference,  bank 
'oliday,  don't  it?     P'tickler  when  it's  'Am'stead. 

rose.     Course  it's  'Am'stead.     What  d'  you  think. 

clem  (crossing  to  Rose  and  Celeste  right).  We  should  'a'  gone 
there  too,  only  for  Mr.  Galloway  'avin'  a  aunt  at  Green- 
wich —  though  of  course  bein'  married  I'm  different,  so  to 
speak.  We  shall  go  be  tram,  I  expect,  and  then  there  's 
th'  'ill  in  the  Park,  an'  the  'eath  close  by  an'  all.  But  I 
don't  know  as  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  goin'  with  y'. 

rose  (half  ignoring  her).     Wish  you  was,  dear.     (Turning  to 
Celeste)     S'leste,  you  an'  Albert  will  be  ready,  won't  you? 
You  must  be  'ere  first  thing,  cause  of  me  and  my  friend 
pickin'  y'  up. 
[Clem  goes  up  left,  presently  returns  to  her  work  right. 

celeste.     We'll    be    ready.     Rather.     What    ho!     (Seeing 


142  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Amanda,  who  has  been  looking  from  one  to  another  and  who 
stands  a  little  bit  wistfully  outside  the  group)  Well,  Mandy, 
got  someone  to  take  y'  out  Monday,  eh? 

amanda  (starts  and  pulls  herself  together) .  I  —  I  don't  know 
as  I  can  go  out  at  all  a  Monday.  Y'  see  prop'ly  speakin' 
I'm  in  mournin'. 

celeste.  You're  always  in  mournin'  'oliday  time  —  you  was 
at  Easter,  too.     I  believe  meself 

amanda  (quickly).  Well,  so  I  was.  I  lost  me  aunt  on  the 
mother's  side  just  before  Good  Friday.  This  (she  touches 
crape  bow)  is  for  me  cousin's  niece  as  passed  away  quietly 
last  week  in  —  in  Kensington.  We  —  we  'ad  been  estranged 
for  some  time,  but  now  she  is  gone  I  bear  'er  no  malice, 
and  she  shall  never  'ave  it  to  say  as  I  didn't  pay  'er  proper 
respect.  And  besides  I  don't  know  as  I  care  to  go  out  in 
my  circumstances. 

celeste.     Your  circumstances !     What  are  they? 

amanda.     Oh,  well  —  till  —  till  'e  comes  for  me,  y'  know. 

rose.  Till  'e  comes  for  'is  shirt,  eh?  —  the  tall  'andsome 
stranger  as  none  of  us  'as  never  seen  —  n'  never  wont. 
(She  jumps  on  a  chair  again  and  takes  out  parcel)  Gam. 
You've  made  it  all  up  about  'im,  I  believe.  "Mr.  'Orris 
Greensmith,  to  be  called  for  " !  "Miss  Amanda  Afflick,  to 
be  called  for " !  That's  more  like  it.  'Ere,  Clem!  Ketch. 
[She  pitches  parcel  to  Mrs.  Galloway. 

amanda  (starting  forward) .     Give  it  'ere. 

clem  (holding  it  high).  Y'  been  washin'  it  again,  Crapie, 
'aven't  y'? 

amanda.     Give  it  'ere.     'Tain't  yours. 

clem.     Ketch,  S'leste. 
[She  throws  it  to  Celeste. 

celeste.  Better  not  wash  it  any  more.  It's  gettin'  so 
thin  it  '11  blow  away  one  of  these  days. 

amanda  (fiercely).     Give  it  me. 

celeste.     Not  so  fast. 

amanda.     Give  it  to  me! 

celeste.     Tell  us  the  truth  then.     You  been  coddin'  us 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  1 43 


I  about  it  all  this  time,  'aven't  you?  'Orris  or  whatever  'e's 
called  'as  left  it  'ere  didn't  take  no  notice  of  y'  at  all,  now 
did  'e? 

amanda  (at  back  of  centre  table  as  Celeste  dances  round  with 
shirt).  Didn't  'e?  P'raps  'e's  never  wrote  to  me  neither, 
letters  and  letters  on  scented  paper  with  crests  and  coats 
o'  arms  —  and  sealing  wax  too.  You're  jealous  all  the  lot 
o'  y'!  Give  it  'ere.  You'll  mess  it.  Oh  (half  crying) 
you'll  mess  it  and  'e  might  come  for  it  to-day.     Give  it  'ere. 

clem.     Let  'er  'ave  it,  S'leste. 

celeste  (holds  it  high).   If  I  do  will  y'  show  me  that  brooch? 

amanda.     What  brooch? 

celeste.  You  know.  The  one  you  told  us  about.  The 
minnycher  set  in  diamonds. 

amanda  (affecting  unconcern).     Oh,  'aven't  I  shown  it  to  y'? 

celeste.     No  n'  none  of  'is  presents.     If  I  give  it  y',  will  y'? 

amanda  (hesitates) .     I  —  I  don't  know  where  I  put  it. 

celeste.     Well  then  the  bracelet  with  the  turquoise. 

amanda.  I  —  I  lent  that  to  me  cousin  for  'er  niece's  funeral. 
She  'asn't  sent  it  back  yet. 

celeste.  Well  then  one  of  the  other  things  then  —  some 
presents  as  'e's  give  y\  will  y'? 

amanda.     Give  me  my  shirt. 

celeste.     Will  y'  then? 

amanda.     All  right. 

celeste.     There  y'  are,  Kipper!     Ketch! 

[Amanda  catches  the  shirt  and  with  her  back  to  the  others 
gently  fondles  it  for  a  moment  as  a  mother  might  fondle  a 
child.  Then  pulling  a  chair  forward  and  climbing  it  she 
puts  the  parcel  safely  away  on  a  shelf. 

celeste.  Seein's  believin'  y'  know,  and  when  we've  seen  — 
no  'anky-panky  mindje !  —  some  jewel  or  something. 

amanda.     All  right. 

clem  (indulgently) .     Let  'er  alone,  S'leste.     That'll  do. 

amanda  (standing  on  chair  to  put  away  the  shirt,  turns  fiercely) . 
'Ere  what's  it  got  to  do  with  you.  You  keep  your  oar 
out  of  my  wheel.     I  can  take  care  of  meself,  Mrs.  Clemen- 


144  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

tina  William  Galloway.  You  think  just  because  I'm  not 
twelve  feet  'igh  and  six  foot  round  like  some  people  as  I 
can't  'old  me  own  with  a  pack  of  chatterin'  girls  like 
S'leste  'ere  and  Rose  Allelujah  Jordan.  One  more  river 
to  cross!  What  ho!  I  spurn  the  lot  of  you.  You're  no 
more  to  me  than  a  herd  of  buzzin'  flies.  (Quieting  down) 
I  go  'ome  from  'ere  and  I  set  on  the  sofa  and  read  'is  letters, 
and  all  what  'appens  in  this  'ouse  o'  bondage  is  no  more  to 
me  than  a  dream  of  the  night! 

clem.     Does  'e  know  what  your  temper  is? 

rose.     Little  spitfire! 

amanda.  There,  dear,  I  don't  mean  it.  Only  y'  see  when 
y'r'ead's  full  of  more  important  things  and  there's  wonder- 
ful changes  loomin'  before  y'  it's  apt  to  make  y'  a  bit  'asty. 
There,  Clem,  (goes  to  her)  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross.  One 
of  these  days  you  shall  know  all. 

celeste  (impressed  in  spite  of  herself).  When  did  y'  'ear 
from  'im  last? 

amanda.     Wednesday  week  —  no,  Tuesday  it  would  be. 

rose.     Did  'e  send  y'  anything  then? 

amanda.     'E's  goin'  to. 

celeste.     Something  nice! 
[Amanda  nods. 

celeste.     Is  it  a  ring? 

AMANDA.      No. 

clem.     'E's  too  sharp  for  that,  eh,  Mandy? 

amanda.  Better  than  that.  (Gets  on  the  table  again)  It's  — 
it's  a  hairloom  —  one  of  those  things  you  wear  in  it  at  the 
op'ra. 

celeste.     I  know  —  a  tarara. 

amanda.  Yes.  (The  girls  stop  working  and  loll  on  the  table 
listening  open-mouthed)  It  sticks  in  y'r  'ead  with  spikes 
and  it's  got  diamonds  and  em'rals  and  stars  all  round  — 
it  sticks  up  like  a  crown  and  it  glitters  —  fit  to  blind  y\ 

celeste.     'E  must  'ave  a  lot  o'  money. 

rose.     Seems  to  chuck  it  about,  don't  'e? 

celeste.     But  you  ain't  seen  'im  again? 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  145 

amanda.     No.     But  'e's  comiii'. 

celeste.     'Ere? 

amanda.     Yes.     There's  a  understandin',  y'  see.     There's 

clouds  on  the  horizon  —  that  why  there's  all  this  mystery. 

But  when  'e  fetches  'is  shirt  —  it's  a  sort  of  a  sign,  see  —  I 

shall  know  that  bright  days  are  in  store. 
clem  (joining  the  table  group  after  affecting  indifference).   But 

what  I  want  to  know  is  —  me  of  course  'avin'  a  'ome  of 

me  own  and  bein'  in  a  responsible  p'sition  so  to  speak  — 

what  I  w^ant  to  know  —  is  'e  going  to  marry  y'? 
amanda.     When  'e's  asked  me  father. 
rose.     Asked  y'  father? 
amanda.     Everybody  respectable  does  that.     A  young  fella 

comes  along  and  'e  says,  isn't  she  beautiful,  'e  says,  I'd  die 

for  'er,  I  wish  she'd  walk  on  me,  through  my  'eart  first. 

But  'e  don't  say  nothing  to  'er,  not  till  'e's  been  to  'er 

father  —  if  'e's  any  class,  y'  know. 
rose.     But  you're  not  beautiful.     I'm  a  lot  better  lookin' 

than  what  you  are  and  I  shouldn't  like  any  chap  to  go  to 

my  father. 
amanda  (sweetly).     Of  course  if  y'  father  'appens  to  be  doin' 

a  bit  in  'Olloway  it  makes  a  difference. 
rose.     'Olloway!     Jail  bird  y'self!     I  don't  believe  a  word 

of  it.     I  don't  believe 

celeste.     Easy,  Rose.     (Pulling  her  away)     Let's  'ear.    (To 

Amanda)     'As  'e  seen  y'  father? 
amanda.    Not  yet  —  because  —  because  of  law  suits,  and  then 

there's  a  missin'  will,  y'  see. 
celeste.     Missin'  will? 
amanda  (setting  herself  again  on  table  centre).     Well,  there 

should  be  rights,  but  I  think  we'd  got  over  that.     Y'  see 

it's  like  this:    My  father  wanted  me  to  grow  up  without 

any  rank  or  pearls  or  carriages  so  as  I  shall  be  loved  just 

for  myself  alone 

clem.     She's  coddin'.     She's  only  a  workus  girl  and  never 

'ad  no  father. 
amanda.     I'm  not.     It's  true.     I've  thought  about  it  and 


146  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

dreamt  about  it  till  I  know  it's  true.     Besides  you'll  see. 
I'm  goin'  to  'im  in  oh  such  a  little  while. 

celeste.     And  what  about  'Orris? 

amanda.  I  shall  ask  'im  if  'e  loves  me  passionately,  and  if 
'e  says  yes,  I  shall  lay  one  white  jew'ld  'and  in  'is,  and  look 
into  'is  pleadin'  eyes  and  say,  'Orris,  because  you  loved  me 
truly  when  I  was  pore  and  in  disguise,  you  shall  'ave  your 
reward. 

celeste  (to  the  others).     It  sounds  all  right,  don't  it? 

clem  (rises).  'Ere,  come  along,  girls.  What's  the  good  o' 
'angin'  about  listenin'  to  all  this  rubbish  when  we  got  these 
things  to  take  'fore  we  can  go.  'Ere,  bustle  up,  S'leste. 
The  old  woman  '11  be  back  again  mongdewing  like  Lord- 
save-us-all  if  she  finds  they  ain't  gone.  (Celeste  and  Rose 
go  into  inner  room  to  put  on  their  hats  and  coats)  You  show 
us  that  present,  Corpsie,  or  find  some  one  to  take  y'  out  a 
Monday,  and  then  p'raps  we'll  see  about  believin'  y\ 
Come,  Rose. 
[She  goes  into  inner  room  left. 

amanda  (absently  and  waving  her  hand) .  I  have  always  loved 
you,  'Orris.  Now  your  patience  is  rewarded.  Rise  and 
take  me  to  my  carriage. 

rose  (putting  on  her  hat  and  helping  Celeste  with  her  coat  as 
she  and  Clem  reappear  with  their  things).  Carriage!  You 
find  somebody  with  a  moke  and  a  barrer  to  take  y'  to 
'Amstead. 

amanda  (loftily).  I'm  not  goin'  on  Monday.  Bank  'olidy! 
It's  just  for  ordinary  people  as  'ave  no  prospex  and  nothing 
better  to  think  of. 

rose.  Oh,  indeed.  (She  picks  up  basket  back  centre)  Well, 
I  'ope,  Miss  Amander  AfBick,  as  you'll  enjoy  yours  all 
alone  by  y'r  own  self  with  nobody  asked  y'  to  go  with  'em ! 

clem.  Don't  git  run  away  with  by  a  earl  or  anything  like 
that  while  we're  out. 

celeste.     So  long,  Corpsie.     Y'  got  to  show  us  one  of  them 
presents,  y'  know.     'Ere,  wait  for  me,  Rose. 
[They  troop  out  left  with  their  packages. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  147 

amanda  (when  the  door  has  closed  behind  them  sits  still  for  a 
moment  or  two.  When  she  lifts  her  face  it  is  seen  to  be  work- 
ing. To  herself).  Monday!  I  should  like  to  be  goin'  to 
'Amstead  —  or  anywheres.  They  might  'a'  asked  me  to  go 
with  'em.  Somebody  might.  Nobody  never  won't. 
Never,  never,  never.  'Oo  wants  me?  'Oo  could?  I 
couldn't.     Oh,  well. 

[She  sniffs  drily  and  getting  up  and  moving  to  rack  climbs  the 
chair  again  and  takes  down  the  rescued  shirt.  Very  carefully 
and  lovingly  she  refolds  it  in  its  covering,  holds  it  to  her  for  a 
moment  and  puts  it  back  on  the  shelf.  She  is  turning  once 
more  to  the  room  when  the  door  is  flung  open  and  Horace 
Greensmith  enters  right.  He  is  a  young  workman  of  suf- 
ficiently ordinary  appearance,  the  type  of  navvy  who  may 
always  be  seen  in  London  breaking  up  main  thoroughfares 
with  sledge-hammer  and  wedge. 

Horace.     'Ere,  two-foot-nothing.     Where's  Mother  Didier? 

amanda  (getting  off  chair  quickly).  Oh,  Mr.  Greensmith!  I 
thought  you  was  dead.     Oh!     (Sits)     Oh! 

Horace.  Mr.  Greensmith!  You  know  my  name.  And 
who  might  you  be  to  think  I  was  dead? 

amanda.     Oh  —  you  must  excuse  me  —  but  I  did  indeed. 
[She  puts  her  hand  over  her  heart. 

Horace.     Did  y'.     Well,  I'm  jolly  well  not. 

amanda  (faintly) .  Oh,  it's  like  one  from  the  grave.  I  shall 
be  all  right  in  a  minute. 

Horace.  Well,  be  quick  about  it.  Now  are  y'  better! 
Very  well,  then,  touchin'  a  shirt  I  left  'ere.  Has  the  old 
woman  sold  it  or  lost  it?  Is  she  goin'  to  fork  it  out  or 
does  she  want  me  to  summons  her  for  it?  Go  an'  arsk  'er. 
Look  slippy. 

amanda.  It's  all  right,  Mr.  Greensmith.  It's  been  took 
pertikler  care  of. 

[Fetches  it,  and  undoing  the  paper  in  which  it  is  wrapped, 
displays  the  shirt  to  him  proudly. 

Horace.     Jeroosalem!     Did  y'  wash  it  yesterday? 

amanda.     Yes,  Mr.  Greensmith. 


148  'OP-0-ME-THUMB 


Horace.  Not  so  much  o'  y'  Mr.  Greensmith.  'Oo  told  y' 
to  wash  it  yesterday!  Did  the  old  woman  twig  I  was 
comin'  ? 

amanda.  No,  Mr.  —  'Orris.  I've  washed  it  every  week, 
ever  since  you  left  it  so  as  to  'ave  it  ready  for  you. 

Horace.  S'help  me,  Jimmy,  you  must  be  'ard  up  for  some- 
thing to  do!  Y'  don't  think  I'm  going  to  pay  for  all  that, 
doy'? 

amanda.  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Greensmith.  If  you  was  to  stuff  the 
money  down  me  throat  wild  horses  wouldn't  make  me 
swallow  it. 

Horace.  H'm!  Well,  I  ain't  going  to.  What's  the  damage, 
anyhow? 

amanda.     We  don't  want  you  to  pay  anything,  reelly. 

Horace.  Oh,  we  don't,  don't  we!  That  suits  me  Al.  You 
may  stick  over  the  door  then,  Washers  by  appointment  to 
'Orris  Greensmith,  Esquire.  Do  you  do  all  y'r  work  like 
that?     Is  this  a  charitable  institution  or  what  is  it? 

amanda.  Oh,  no,  Mr.  'Orris,  we  aren't  charitable,  oh, 
not  at  all.  You  see  we  —  that  is  /  thought  we  should  never 
see  you  no  more.  You'd  been  away  so  long  —  there  seemed 
nothing  else  to  think 

Horace.  Well,  I'm  jiggered.  Deaders  on  the  free  list,  eh? 
'Oly  Moses! 

amanda.     You  don't  think  it  was  a  liberty,  do  you? 

Horace  {looks  at  her  a  moment  and  then  bursts  out  laughing). 
Strike  me  silly  if  I  ever  came  across  anything  quite  as 
dotty  before.  I  was  dead,  was  I,  and  this  was  a  blasted 
souvenir.  'Oo  the  blazes  wanted  a  blasted  souvenir  of  me? 
Not  you! 

amanda.     I  know  it  was  a  liberty,  Mr.  Greensmith. 

horace.     'Ere,  'andle  me  carefully.     I  shall  faint. 

amanda.     I'm  very  sorry  if  you're  angry. 

horace.     Was  you  'ere  when  I  come  before? 

amanda  {eagerly).  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Orris.  It  was  at  a  quarter 
to  five  one  Wednesday  —  don't  you  recklekt?  It  was 
in  October,  the  15  th  and  there  was  a  crool  fog  all  the 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  149 

morning.     You  was  coughin'  and  saying  things  about  the 

weather. 
Horace.     Was  I? 
amanda.     Don't  you  remember? 
Horace.     I  remember  the  fog  —  but  then  I  remember  a  lot 

o'  fogs. 
amanda.     I've  thought  of  it  every  day  since. 
Horace.     'Ere,  what  are  you  anyway? 
amanda.     I'm  a  orphin.     I  don't  say  so  but  I  am  —  only  to 

you  I  mean.    I  —  what'll  you  think  of  me,  Mr.  Greensmith? 

—  I  —  I  was  born  in  the  Union. 
Horace.     I  got  no  call  to  think  one  way  or  the  other. 
amanda.     I  wouldn't  'a'  told  no  one  else.     But  I  couldn't 

tell  you  —  well,  what  I  tell  the  others. 
Horace.     The  others?     Are  there  any  more  'ere  like  you? 
amanda.     Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  there's  any  others  anywhere 

like  me. 
Horace.     No,  I  dessay  not. 
amanda.     Of  course,  I'm  not  very  tall.     We  don't  grow  much 

in  the  work'ouse  —  but  some  o'  them  large  girls  is  very 

fickle,  don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Greensmith? 
Horace.     No  girls  is  any  good. 
amanda.     Oh,  Mr.  Orris,  you  ain't  married,  are  y'? 
Horace.     Not  much. 
amanda  (relieved).     Oh  —  I  thought  jes  fer  a  moment  —  you 

mustn't  mind  me.     Oh,  I  am  glad. 
Horace.     Married.     Yah.     Knows  too  much  about  it. 
amanda.     I'm  glad  ye're  not  married,  any  way.     Y'  see,  Mr. 

Greensmith,  if  you  won't  think  it  a  liberty  what  I  am  tell- 
ing you,  I  always  thought  of  you  as  a  sort  of  fairy  prince, 

y'  see;  and  they  aren't  never  married,  are  they? 
Horace  (stretches  out  one  leg  and  looks  at  it  dubiously).    'Ere, 

my  'ead  '11  go  if  I  stop  much  longer.     A  fairy — you've 

been  ill,  'aven't  you? 
amanda.     Oh,  no,  Mr.  'Orris,  I'm  never  ill.     I'm  very  strong, 

and  work!     Well,  you  should  see  me  on  a  busy  day!     It's 

only 


150  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Horace.     Only  what? 

amanda.  Well,  when  you  ain't  got  much  of  y'r  own  you 
do  dream  about  beautiful  things,  don't  you?  That's  how 
I  came  to  think  of  you. 

Horace.  Thank  you  —  very  kind  of  you,  don't  mention  it. 
(Pause)     Well,  chuck  us  the  shirt. 

amanda  (brings  it  to  him  sloioly).  I  suppose  you'll  send  us 
some  other  things. 

Horace.  Don't  know;  can't  say.  (Amanda  furtively  wipes 
one  eye)     Hello.     What's  the  matter  with  y'? 

amanda.     Oh,  nothing. 

Horace.     What's  that  crape  for? 

amanda.     I  say  it's  for  relations. 

Horace.  Oh,  well,  pull  up  your  socks  and  grin,  y'  can't 
'ave  y'  relations  always,  y'  know. 

amanda.     I  never  'ad  no  relations. 

Horace.  Well,  what  d'  y'  wear  the  bow  for  then?  Y'  don't 
know  what  y're  talking  about.  Y'  wears  it  for  your  re- 
lations and  you  never  'ad  none.  Rottin'  sort  of  goin'  into 
mourning  that.  Where's  y'  father?  (Amanda  shakes  her 
head)     Oh,  well  —  where's  y'  mother,  anyway? 

amanda.  She's  dead  —  she  died  when  I  was  quite  little  —  oh, 
well,  littler  than  I  am  now.     But  it  ain't  for  'er. 

Horace.     'Oo  is  it  for? 

amanda.     You  won't  tell  the  other  girls,  will  y'? 

Horace.  No.  What  should  I  want  t'  go  jawin'  about  you 
for? 

amanda.  You  see,  I  tell  them  that  I  got  a  father  who's  rich 
—  ever  so  rich  —  and  who's  coming  to  take  me  away,  see, 
like  in  a  story.  I'm  in  disguise  now,  but  one  day  'e'll 
come  and  say  "Apparel  'er  in  ermine,"  and  then  I  shall  go 
away  and  be  a  lady.  I  used  to  think  he  would  really 
come,  but  now  I  guess  'e's  dead,  though  I  tell  them  'e's 
comin'.  I  don't  wear  it  for  'im  though.  I  keep  on  changin' 
'oo  it's  for.  Y'  see  I  felt  I  must  wear  it.  (Looks  up  shyly) 
But  I  can  take  it  off  now,  Mr.  'Orris. 
[A  pause. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  151 

Horace.     Well  of  all.     Give  us  the  shirt. 

amanda.     Are  y'  goin'  at  once? 

Horace.     Well,  since  you  are  so  pressin'  I  got  about  'alf  a 

minute  t'  waste.     Now  then. 
amanda.     Nothin',  I  jes  wanted  to  see  you.     Y'  can  smoke 

if  y'  like. 
Horace.     Make  meself  at  'ome,  eh,  and  what  for! 

[Sits  on  table. 
amanda  (coming  near  to  him  left  standing  beside  him).     Y* 

said  y'  wasn't  married.     Are  y'  in  love,  Mr.  Greensmith? 
Horace.     Oh,  chuck  it.     What's  that  to  do  with  you? 
amanda.     I  want  to  know  pertickler. 
Horace.     Well,  I  ain't  jes'  now. 
amanda.     I  expect  lots  o'  girls  is  in  love  with  you. 
Horace.     Oh,  yes.  I  can't  'ardly  get  down  the  street  for  'em. 
amanda.     You  wouldn't  say  I  was  pretty,  would  y',  Mr. 

Greensmith? 
Horace.     I  'aven't  thought  about  it. 
amanda.     You  wouldn't  think  about  it,  would  y'? 

Horace  (indulgently).     W-ell 

amanda.     Eh?  but  looks  ain't  everything,  are  they?     Some 

o'  them  pretty  girls  they  aren't  content  when  one  feller 

likes  'em,  they  wants  a  lot  o'  chaps  to  say  as  they're 

beautiful. 
Horace.     Don't  I  know  it?     'Orris  Greensmith  ain't  goin' 

to  be  one  of  them. 
amanda.     You  ain't  very  'asty,  are  you? 
Horace.     Middlin'.     What's  up? 
amanda.     I  don't  hardly  like  to  tell  y'. 
Horace.     'Ere,  what  y'  been  doin'  of? 

[Stops  in  act  of  lighting  pipe  and  stares  at  her  with  match  in 

his  hand. 
amanda  (wriggling  in  front  of  him).     I  want  to  tell  y',  Mr. 

Greensmith,  but  I'm  afraid  you  won't  like  it. 
Horace.     Not  knowing,  can't  say.     Stand  still,  can't  y'? 
amanda.     Y'  might  turn  round,  will  y',  and  look  out  the 

winder?     I  don't  like  bein'  looked  at  —  then  I'll  tell  y'. 


152  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 


Horace  (stares  at  her  hard  a  minute).     Well,  there  ain't  much 

to  look  at,  is  there?     Now  then. 

[Turns  round  and  lights  up  pipe. 
amanda.     Y'  see  —  y'  see  —  it's  like  this,  Mr.  'Orris.     You 

comin'  in  and  seein'  me  last  year  and  never  comin'  'ere 

again  all  the  girls  what's  'ere  says  as  'ow  you  were  in  love 

with  me. 
Horace   (turning  round  promptly).     What!     Me!     Wodder 

they  take  me  for?     In  love !     Lord  save  us. 

amanda.     Y'  know  girls  will  talk,  Mr.  'Orris. 

Horace.     Yuss,  they  talks  right  enough  if  you  give  them  'alf 

a  chance.     Well,  is  that  what  y'  wanted  to  tell  me,  'cause 

if  so  y'  could  'a'  kep'  it  to  y'self . 
amanda.     That  ain't  all. 
Horace.     'Ope  y'  jolly  well  told  'em  I  wasn. 
amanda.     No.     I  didn't  tell  'em  that. 
Horace.     D'y'  mean  to  tell  me  a  pack  o'  girls  thinks  as  I  — 

[Roars   with   laughter.      Amanda   stands   shamefaced   and 

nervous. 
amanda.     I  'oped  y'  wouldn't  laugh,  Mr.  'Orris. 
Horace.     Wouldn't  laugh.    Ho,  no !  but  it  is  a  bit  thick,  isn't 

it!    So  I'm  in  love  with  you,  am  I?    Would  y'  like  t'  get  on 

the  table  and  then  y'r  lovin'  'usband  could  give  y'  a  kiss. 

[Amanda  begins  to  get  on  table. 
Horace  (amazed).     Did  y'  think  I  was  really  goin'  to  kiss  y'? 
amanda.     I  should  like  y'  to  kiss  me,  Mr.  'Orris. 
Horace  (sinks  into  chair).     Phew.     'Ere,  I'm  gettin'   'ot. 

Give  us  a  chance.     You  go  too  quick  fer  me. 
amanda  (squatting  on  the  table  and  smoothing  her  dress  and 

pulling  it  over  her  boots) .     I  didn't  know  as  gentlemen  didn't 

like  bein'  kissed. 
Horace.     'Ere,  let's  look  at  y'. 

[Pause. 
amanda   (looking  at  him   diffidently).     You   are   'andsome, 

aren't  you,  Mr.  'Orris,  but  I  s'pose  you  know  that. 
Horace.     I've  'eard  something  about  it. 
amanda.     That  ain't  all  what  I  told  y'  jes'  now. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  153 

Horace.     What! 

amanda.  All  the  other  girls  they've  got  fellers  to  give  'em 
things. 

Horace.  You  don't  say  so.  Well,  you  ain't  goin'  to  catch 
me 

amanda.  Oh,  no,  but  I  didn't  like  their  sayin'  as  nobody 
ever  giv'  me  anything,  so  I  bin  tellin'  them  as  you  gave  me 
lots  an'  'eaps  o'  things  —  dimonds  and  joolery  and  watches 
—  'andsome,  y'  know.  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  come  back. 
I'd  waited  so  long  —  and  at  last  I  went  into  mournin'  — 
but  I  kep'  on  sayin'  about  the  presents  and  letters,  and  now 
I  'aven't  even  anything  to  be  in  mournin'  for,  and  they'll 
say  as  they  always  knew  as  I  was  kiddin',  and  (sniffs) 
they  didn't  —  they  reelly  thought  it  was  true  what  I  told 
them.  I  know  it  was  a  liberty,  Mr.  'Orris,  but  I  'oped  you 
wouldn't  mind. 

Horace  (w histles.  Slowly).  They  thinks  as  I've  been  stuffing 
you  up  with  presents. 

amanda.     Yes,  Mr.  'Orris. 

Horace.  Well,  you've  just  about  made  a  nice  mess  of 
things,  ain't  y'? 

amanda.     Couldn't  you 

Horace.     Couldn't  I  do  it  really.     Not  much. 

amanda.  I  didn't  mean  that,  but  as  you  ain't  dead  couldn't 
you  go  on  sayin'  nothin'  and  let  me  go  on  pretendin'? 

HORACE.      No. 

amanda.     It  wouldn't  cost  y'  nothin'.     Why  won't  y'? 

Horace.     Yes.     Why  won't  I? 

amanda  (walking  away  very  much  downcast).    I  thought  you 

might  like  to  oblige  a  lady. 
Horace.     What  next!     (Amanda  goes  up  to  window  and  dries 

her  eyes  with  her  apron)     What  'r  y'  snuffling  about,  y' 

little  beggar? 
amanda.     Nothin',  Mr.  'Orris. 
Horace.     They  must  be  a  precious  lot  o'  mugs  them  girls  if 

they  swaller  a  tale  like  that.  I  never  heard  o'  such  a  thing. 

[He  leans  against  table  with  his  back  to  audience. 


154  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 


amanda.     They  didn't  believe  it  for  a  long  while,  but  now 

they  believes  it,  an'  about  me  father,  too. 

Horace.     Father!     Didn't  y'  say  he  was  a  gonner 

amanda  (faintly  and  tearfully) .     I  don't  know,  though  I  guess. 

But  (rather  proudly)  they  think  I've  got  a  father  as  rich  as 

ever  'e  could  be,  and  'andsome,  more  'andsome  even  than 

you. 
horace.     Pretty  sort  o'  father  to  leave  you  in  this  'ole  then. 
amanda.     They  think  'e's  comin'  to  fetch  me. 
Horace.     Best  'urry  up  I  should  say. 
amanda  (gives  a  little  gesture).     Oh,  don't  you  see!     I  got 

nothing,  Mr.  'Orris  —  nothing. 

[She  subsides  and  burying  her  face  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm 

cries  silently.     Pause. 
horace.     'Ere,  fuDny,  you  needn't  drown  the  place  out. 

Tell  'em  what  you  blasted  well  like.     I  don't  care.     (Kicks 

a  clothes  basket)     I  don't  care. 
amanda.     Oh,  Mr.  'Orris. 

horace.     Yes,  oh,  Mr.  'Orris,  but  you  don't  catch  me  com- 
ing 'ere  no  more. 
amanda.     You  won't  come  'ere  again! 
horace.     No  fear.     Is  it  likely?     What  d'ye  take  me  for? 
amanda.     Then  I  don't  know  as  I'll  tell  'em  anything  then. 
horace.     Suit  yourself. 

amanda.     I'd  rather  —  oh,  I  don't  care  what  they  think. 
horace.     Look  'ere,  nipper.     (He  comes  to  her)     I'm  goin' 

to  talk  like  a  father  to  you.     You're  puttin'  y'r  money  on 

the  wrong  'orse  —  not  as  I'm  a  wrong'un  mindje,  but  if 

you  was  to  talk  to  some  chaps  like  this 

amanda  (quickly).     Oh,  but  I  wouldn't. 

horace.     That's  all  right  then.     Now  you  give   me  my 

shirt  and  I'll  be  off  and  (generously)  you  tell  those  girls  just 

what  you  damn  well  please. 
amanda  (looking  at  the  parcel  lingeringly) .    You're  goin'  to 

take  it. 
horace.     Time  I  did,  isn't  it? 
amanda.     I  shan't  'ave  nothin'  to  remember  y'  by. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  155 


Horace.  Would  y'  like  a  lock  o'  me  'air?  'Ere  —  'ere's  a 
present  for  y\  (He  takes  a  pin  out  of  his  tie)  Gold  pin, 
42  carat,  diamond  mounted,  pearl  centre,  em'rald  border 
encrusted  with  rubies.  (Polishes  it  on  his  sleeve)  New  cut 
2-9.     There,  my  dear. 

amanda  (delighted).     Oh,  Mr.  'Orris! 

Horace.     Now  we're  quits. 

amanda  (excitedly).  I  did  want  something  to  show  to 
S'leste,  and  it  is  lovely,  lovely,  but  —  but 

Horace.     What  now? 

amanda.  It  means  as  you're  goin'  for  ever.  Couldn't  — 
couldn't  you  keep  it  and  not 

Horace.     Not  what? 

amanda.     Not  go.     It  —  it's  like  you  dyin'  all  over  again. 

Horace.     Well  of  all  the  treats 

amanda  (with  a  new  tlwught).    Where  are  y'  goin'  now? 

Horace.     'Ome,  I  s'pose. 

amanda.     We  —  we  do  send  things 

Horace.     What  are  y'  drivin'  at? 

amanda.  Say  I  was  to  bring  y'  this.  Or  if  you'd  wait  a 
little  bit  I  might  carry  it  out  for  you.  It's  nice  strollin' 
in  the  summer  evenin's,  Mr.  'Orris,  and  it'd  be  no  trouble. 

Horace  (stooping,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  thus  bringing 
his  face  on  to  a  level  with  hers).    Come  with  me,  d'y'  mean? 

amanda.     Yes. 

noRACE.     Yes.     We  could  go  for  strolls  every  evenin',  eh? 

amanda  (with  a  long  breath) .     Oh  —  ye-es. 

Horace  (mimicking  her).  Ye-es!  What  d'  y'  think  my 
friends  'd  say?     WThy,  as  we  was  walkin'  out. 

amanda.     J  wouldn't  mind,  Mr.  'Orris. 

horace.     But  what  price  me? 

amanda.     I  shouldn't  expect  y'  to  marry  me. 

horace.     Much  obliged.     Thank  y'. 

amanda.     I  didn't  even  dream  as  y'd  marry  me  really. 

horace.  Well  then,  if  you  was  to  come  messin'  about  with 
me  what'd  your  girls  'ere  say?  You  don't  want  to  lose 
y'  character,  I  s'pose. 


156  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

amanda.     /  wouldn't  mind,  Mr.  'Orris. 

hokace.  So  'elp  me,  Bob.  You  don't  seem  to  mind  any- 
thing. (He  walks  half-way  to  the  door  and  pauses)  'Ere. 
Are  all  o'  you  girls  goin'  out  a  Monday? 

amanda.  The  others  are,  Rose  and  S'leste  and  Clem. — 
that's  Mrs.  Galloway. 

Horace.     But  what  about  you? 

amanda.     I  —  I'm  supposed  to  be  in  mournin'. 

Horace.  'As  nobody  asked  y'?  (Amanda  hangs  her  head) 
'As  nobody  asked  y'? 

amanda.  I  —  (she  bites  her  lips)  —  I  can't  pretend  any  more. 
(Breaking  down)  No.  Nobody's  never  asked  me.  (She 
sobs)  I  s'pose  now  nobody  never  will.  I  see  'em  all  start 
times  and  times  with  their  fellas.  Oh,  it  don't  matter. 
Only  I  didn't  mean  as  you  should  know. 
[Sits. 

Horace.     Where  are  they  goin'? 

amanda  (sobbing  gently).  'Amstead.  Oh,  it  don't  matter, 
Mr.  'Orris. 

Horace.  Yes  it  do.  (He  moves  about  restlessly  for  a  minute, 
then  stares  at  her  intently)     Look  'ere.     Shall  I  take  y'? 

amanda.     D'  y'  mean  it? 

Horace.     Did  I  say  it?     Very  well  then. 

amanda.     Oh,  Mr.  'Orris. 

Horace.     I'll  get  a  trap  and  we'll  go  to  'Amstead. 

amanda  (in  ecstasy).     Oh,  Mr.  'Orris. 

Horace.  All  right.  That's  settled.  I'll  call  for  you  'ere 
at  nine  sharp  Monday  mornin'. 

amanda.     Y'  won't  change  y'  mind. 

Horace.     No.     If  I  say  I'll  do  a  thing  I'll  do  it. 

amanda.     And  I  may  tell  S'leste  and  the  others. 

Horace.     Tell  the  'ole  world  if  y'  like.     Tell  all  Soho. 

amanda  (dancing  and  clapping  her  hands  and  singing).  Oh, 
it'll  be  joyful,  joyful,  joyful,  joyful!  I'll  wear  me  blue 
dress  that  buttons  up  the  back,  and  I've  got  a  'at  as  I 
'ardly  worn  yet.  Won't  the  other  girls  stare!  Not  one 
of  'em's  got  a  fella  like  you.     Rose's  Jim  —  why  'e's  not 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  157 

much  bigger  than  me.  And  S'leste's  Alhit  —  'e's  only  a 
dustman.  And  as  for  Mr.  Galloway  —  if  'e's  sober  be  nine 
o'clock  in  the  mornin'  Clem'll  'ave  something  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  Oh,  Mr.  'Orris.  Sat'dy,  Sundy,  Mondy.  A  'ole 
day  to  look  forward  in.  There  won't  be  a  'appier  lady 
anywhere  Monday  than  what  I  shall  be.  You'll  be  'ere  be 
nine.     {Coming  back  to  him)     That's  when  the  others  go. 

Horace.     D'  they  start  from  'ere? 

amanda.     Yes. 

Horace  (shifting  his  feet).  Nine  o'clock,  that's  all  right,  but 
I  think  it'd  be  better  to  meet  by  the  Dispens'ry,  see  —  in 
Paul  street. 

amanda  (her  face  falling  a  little).  Paul  street  —  right  down 
there? 

Horace.  What's  the  matter  with  Paul  street?  Everyone 
knows  the  Dispens'ry.  It's  a  good  place  to  meet, 
ain't  it? 

amanda.     I  should  'a'  liked  you  to  come  'ere. 

Horace.     What's  the  difference? 

amanda  (reluctantly).  I  should  'a'  liked  'em  all  to  see  me 
goin'  off  with  y'.     They  won't  more  than  'alf  believe  else. 

horace.     Paul  street's  much  more  convenient. 

amanda.     There  won't  be  the  crowd  there  is  'ere. 

horace.  No.  That's  it.  We  don't  want  no  crowds,  do 
we?  It'll  be  much  better  to  go  quietly  from  Paul  street, 
won't  it?  You  be  there  at  nine  and  I'll  come  along  and 
pick  y'  up.  Then  we  shan't  'ave  no  waitin'  about. 
(Amanda  looks  at  him  slowly)  You  could  be  at  the  corner, 
couldn't  you,  where  that  little  court  is,  and  come  out  when 
I  whistled. 

amanda  (still  looking  at  him).  Yes.  I  needn't  show  me- 
self  till  you  come. 

Horace.  That's  right.  (A  little  pause)  And  er  —  I  was 
thinkin'  there's  such  'undreds  of  people  goes  to  'Amstead. 
We  don't  want  to  go  there,  do  we?  What'd  y'  say  to  the 
forest? 

amanda.     Eppin'? 


158  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Horace.     Yes.     I  know  a  nice  quiet  little  bit  of  it  where  we 

could  go. 
amanda  (meekly).     I  don't  mind,  Mr.  'Orris. 

[She  walks  away  from  him. 
Horace.     All    right    then.     Monday,    nine    o'clock.     Paul 

street.     Blest  if  I  wasn't  goin'  without  me  shirt  after  all. 

Ta-ta. 

[Is  about  to  go. 
amanda  (calling  him  back  just  as  he  is  at  the  door).  Mr.  'Orris. 
Horace.     Yes. 

amanda.     I  —  I  can't  go  after  all. 
Horace  (coming  back).     Can't  go! 

AMANDA.      No. 

Horace.     What  d'  y'  mean,  can't  go? 

amanda.  What  I  say.  I  —  (recovering  herself  with  an  effort)  — 
I  been  pretendin'.     Just  to  see  what  you'd  do. 

Horace.     Pretendin' ! 

amanda.  Yes.  (Nervous  and  excited,  but  gaining  confidence 
as  she  proceeds)  You  see  I  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  go  out 
with  strangers.  My  people  wouldn't  let  me.  I've  been 
brought  up  different.  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  very  angry,  but 
none  of  that  about  me  bein'  a  orphin  or  born  in  the  Union 
is  true.  I'm  the  child  of  poor  but  respectable  parents, 
and  I've  bin  very  strictly  brought  up,  and  so,  though  I'm 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Greensmith,  I  mustn't 
accept  your  kind  invitation. 

Horace.     Strike  me  pink! 

amanda.  You  don't  mind  me  'avin'  a  bit  of  a  lark  with  y\ 
do  y'?  It  was  so  dull  'ere  while  the  others  was  out.  I 
couldn't  'elp  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  If  you  was  to  seen  y'r  own 
face!     You  got  a  soft  'eart,  that  I  will  say.     Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Horace.  Made  a  fool  of  me,  'ave  y'.  All  right  my  girl. 
Wait  till  I  bring  y'  more  washin'  to  do. 

amanda.     There,  don't  be  angry. 

Horace.  Angry.  'Oo's  angry?  It's  enough  to  make  any- 
one angry.     Why 

amanda.     Garn.     You  know  very  well  as  it's  a  relief. 


'OP-O'-ME-THUMB  159 

Horace.     Relief? 

amanda  (half  hysterical).  Not  to  'ave  to  take  me  out  —  a 
little  'op-o'-me-thumb  like  me.  Ain't  it  now?  And  'ave 
everybody  laughin'  at  y\  and  askin'  y'  what  it  was,  and 
where  y'd  picked  it  up,  and  why  they  'adn't  drowned  it 
when  it  was  born.  Ho,  ho.  It'd  be  a  poor  world,  eh,  if 
we  didn't  get  a  bit  o'  fun  out  of  it  some'ow,  and  some  of 
us  was  meant  to  supply  all  the  fun  for  the  others,  it's  my 
opinion.  Lord,  when  you  thought  I  was  cryin'  I  thought 
I  should  'a'  died.  Laugh!  Whenever  I  think  of  it  I  shall 
most  split  meself.     Y'  don't  mind,  old  man,  do  y'? 

Horace.     I've  a  good  mind  to  wring  y'  neck  for  y'. 

amanda.     No,  don't  do  that.     May  I  keep  the  pin? 

Horace.     Keep  what  y'  like. 

amanda.    I  will  then.    Now  say  y'  ain't  angry  before  y'  go. 

Horace.     I'll  be  blowed  if  I  do. 

amanda.     Jes'  to  show  there's  no  ill  feelin'. 

HORACE.     Git  out. 

amanda.     Say  it. 

[She  stands  looking  up  at  him  tremulously. 

Horace.  'Ere.  (Stares  at  her  hard,  then  takes  her  hands  and 
pulls  her  round  to  the  light)  Why!  What'r-ye  playin'  at? 
Tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil.  Twig?  I  was  a  fool 
to  say  as  I'd  take  y\  We  wasn't  made  for  each  other  — 
what  d'ye  call  yerself,  'op-o'-me-thumb?  but  you're  a  game 
little  'un,  and  'Orris  Greensmith's  goin'  to  sling  'is  bloomin' 
'ook.  See!  Now  gi'  us  that  kiss  I  asked  y'  for. 
[Kisses  her  quickly  and  in  a  shame-faced  manner,  but  very 
kindly,  then  whips  up  hat  and  shirt  and  goes  out  quietly. 
She  stands  for  a  moment  or  two  swaying.  When  she  looks 
up  he  is  gone. 

amanda.  'E  kissed  me!  (Wonderingly)  'E  kissed  me. 
O-oh.  (She  looks  round  and  begins  mechanically  to  put  the 
room  tidy.  Presently  she  bethinks  her  of  the  pin.  She  takes 
it  out  of  the  bosom  of  her  dress  where  she  has  stuck  it)  'E  was 
ashamed  of  me,  too.  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  spurn  it.  I 
ought  really  to  'a'  thrown  it  at  'is  false  feet  and  said:  "Take 


160  'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 


back  the  jew'ls  with  which  you  'ave  loaded  me,  they  are 
poisonin'  me,"  but  (shaking  her  head  and  nibbing  the  stones 
on  her  sleeve  to  make  them  shine)  I  can't.  Oh,  Mr.  'Orris, 
you've  broken  my  'eart  and  stuck  a  pin  in  it.  But  you 
did  kiss  me.  You  can't  take  back  y'  kiss.  I  shan't  wait 
to  hear  their  talk.  Me  pretendin's  over  and  done  with. 
(She  pidls  off  her  crape  bow  and  holds  it  to  her  lips)  There's 
nobody  —  nobody  now  for  me  to  pretend.  Oh,  Mr.  'Orris  — ■ 
Mr.  'Orris. 

[She  crouches  in  a  shabby  little  heap  in  the  middle  of  the  empty 
room  as  the 

CURTAIN  FALLS 


THE  IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE 
CREATURE 

COSMO  GORDON-LENNOX 

Cosmo  Gordon-Lennox  was  born  in  1869.  For  some 
years,  between  1894  and  1906,  he  enjoyed  wide  experience  as 
an  actor  under  the  name  Cosmo  Stuart.  His  most  important 
roles  were  in  Wilde's  "An  Ideal  Husband",  Anthony  Hope's 
"The  Adventure  of  Lady  Ursula",  and  Henry  Arthur  Jones' 
"The  Princess'  Nose."  He  retired  from  the  stage  in  1906, 
devoting  a  large  part  of  his  time  to  the  writing  of  plays,  many 
of  which  were  written  in  collaboration. 

The  plays  of  Mr.  Gordon-Lennox  are  preeminently  stage 
plays,  written  by  an  actor  for  actors.  They  are  soundly  con- 
structed, conventionally  effective,  —  little  more.  "The  Im- 
pertinence of  the  Creature"  is  one  of  those  "circumstance 
pieces"  that  are  intended  solely  to  amuse.  The  circumstance 
for  which  it  was  prepared  was  a  Royal  performance;  it  was 
first  performed  at  Marlborough  House  in  presence  of  "T.M. 
the  King  and  Queen,  T.M.  the  King  and  Queen  of  Denmark, 
T.R.H.  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,"  in  1907. 

PLAYS 

Plays  marked  with  *  are  in  one  act  only. 
Becky  Sharp  (1901)  The  Marriage  of  Kitty 

(In     collaboration     with  (1903) 

R.  S.  Hichens)  The    Freedom    of    Suzanne 

The  Little  French  Milliner  (1904) 

(1902) 


162  THE  IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE 


The  Indecision  of  Mr.  Kings- 
bury (1905) 

Miquette  (1907) 

The  Thief  (1907) 

(From  the  French) 
*The    Impertinence    of    the 
Creature  (1907) 

Her  Sister  (1907) 

(In   collaboration   with 
Clyde  Fitch) 

Angela  (1907) 


Helena's  Path  (1910) 

(In   collaboration   with 
Anthony  Hope) 

Primrose  (1912) 
(From  the  French) 

The  New  Secretary  (1913) 

Frisco  Sal  (1913) 

(In   collaboration   with 
Dion  Clayton  Calthorp) 
*The  Van  Dyck  (1914) 
(From  the  French) 


"The  Marriage  of  Kitty"  and  "The  Impertinence  of  the 
Creature"  are  published  by  Samuel  French,  New  York. 


THE  IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE 

A  DUOLOGUE 


By  COSMO  GORDON-LENNOX 


"The  Impertinence  of  the  Creature"  was  first  produced 
at  London  in  1907. 

Characters 

Lady  Millicent,  A  widow 
An  Unknown  Gentleman 


Copyriqht,  1909,  by  Cosmo  Gqbdon-Lbnnox. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  Samuel  French. 


THE  IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE 

Scene.     A  boudoir  leading  from  a  London  ballroom. 
Enter  Lady  Millicent.     Her  manner  is  flurried  and  annoyed; 

she  looks  off  as  she  hurries  on. 

lady  millicent.  The  impertinence  of  the  creature!  Thank 
heavens  at  last  I've  got  rid  of  him!  (She  sits,  fanning  her- 
self. Enter  a  gentleman,  timidly  and  shyly;  he  advances 
awkwardly  toward  the  Lady;  she  sees  him)  Oh !  (She  turns 
her  head  away  from  him,  he  advances  nearer  to  her.  She 
crosses  and  sits  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stage.  A  pause; 
he  follows  her  shyly;  she  rises  and  goes  to  exit;  he  crosses  and 
gets  before  her)  Really,  this  is  outrageous  —  and  absurd. 
How  dare  you  persecute  me  in  this  way? 

gentleman.     I  didn't  mean 

lady  millicent.  You  didn't  mean.  Have  you  or  have  you 
not  been  following  me  about  the  room  ever  since  I  came  to 
this  horrid  ball? 

gentleman.     Well,  I 

lady  millicent.     Don't  deny  it. 

gentleman.     I  don't  —  I 

lady  millicent.  And  I  don't  know  you,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  you.     Do  I? 

GENTLEMAN.      No  —  I 

lady  millicent  (violently).  Then  how  dare  you?  How  dare 
you?  How  dare  you?  (She  breaks  her  fan)  If  you  don't 
answer  me,  I  shall  lose  my  temper  in  a  minute. 

gentleman.     Well  —  er  —  er 

lady  millicent.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  stammer.  It's 
extremely  fortunate  for  you  that  I  don't  see  a  man  I  know 
here,  whom  I  can  ask  to  protect  me  from  your  insolence. 
But  I  don't  know  a  soul  in  the  room.     I  never  saw  such 


16G   IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE 

an  extraordinary  lot  of  people;  wherever  they  come  from, 
I  can't  think.     What  an  entertainment! 

GENTLEMAN.      It  IS  dull. 

lady  millicent.  It's  extremely  bad  manners  to  criticise 
the  hospitality  that's  offered  to  you.  If  you  find  it  dull, 
why  don't  you  go  home  to  bed? 

GENTLEMAN.       I  Can't! 

lady  millicent.  I  suppose  you  mean  that  for  an  exagger- 
ated compliment.     How  dare  you  annoy  me  in  this  way? 

gentleman.     I  don't  want  to  annoy  you.     I 

lady  millicent.  In  heaven's  name,  then,  what  do  you 
want? 

gentleman.     I  —  I  wanted  to  ask  you  —  er 

lady  millicent.  If  it's  a  subscription  to  a  charity,  I  don't 
usually  take  my  purse  with  me  to  a  ball. 

gentleman.  I  don't  want  a  subscription.  I  want  —  er  —  to 
take  you  down  to  supper. 

lady  millicent.  Rien  que  ga!  Really!  I  suppose  you'll 
say  next  I  look  as  if  I  was  starving,  and  could  only  be  saved 
from  inanition  by  lukewarm  soup  and  bad  champagne. 

gentleman  (with  a  smile).    The  champagne's  all  right. 

lady  millicent.  If  you  mean  you've  been  indulging  in  too 
much  of  it,  I  shan't  take  that  as  an  excuse.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself. 

gentleman.     Do  you  mean  to  say  I'm  drunk? 

lady  millicent.     It  wasn't  I  said  so.     You  said  so 

gentleman.     I  —  never ! 

lady  millicent.  Please  —  please  don't  contradict  me. 
I've  been  lenient  with  you  up  till  now,  but  I  will  not  be 
insulted. 

gentleman.     I  didn't  mean  to  insult  you.   My  name  is 

lady  millicent.  I  don't  want  to  know  your  name.  It 
doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least.  Now  listen  to  me.  It's 
true  I  don't  know  a  soul  at  this  ball,  I  don't  even  know  my 
hostess.  My  sister  Eleanor  sent  me  an  invitation.  She 
knows  these  people,  and  I  can't  think  why  she  hasn't  ar- 
rived instead  of  leaving  me  to  battle  with  these  horrid 


IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE   167 

creatures  and  their  dreadful  guests.  Eleanor's  so  dread- 
fully selfish. 

gentleman.     I'm  so  sorry  that 

lady  millicent.  Please  don't  insult  my  relations.  My 
sister's  selfishness  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  But  what 
I  was  going  to  say  was  this,  although  I  don't  know  my 
hostess,  I  could  easily  have  complained  to  her  of  your 
conduct,  but  I'm  too  kindhearted.  Be  reasonable;  if  you 
wanted  to  make  my  acquaintance  —  why  didn't  you  get 
someone  to  introduce  you  to  me  properly? 

gentleman.     I  hardly  know  anyone  here. 

lady  millicent.  Well,  I  don't  blame  you  for  that.  I  never 
saw  such  a  gathering  in  my  life. 

gentleman.     Ha!  ha!! 

lady  millicent.  Don't  laugh  in  that  idiotic  way.  The 
fact  of  your  knowing  no  one — (suddenly)  Young  man, 
were  you  invited  to  this  ball?     Have  you  got  an  invitation? 

GENTLEMAN.      No,  I 

lady  millicent.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  have  you  got  one 
in  your  pocket.     But  did  you  have  one  sent  to  you? 

GENTLEMAN.      No ! 

lady  millicent.  Good  heavens,  of  all  the  brazen  creatures ! 
You  must  leave  the  house  at  once. 

GENTLEMAN.      I  Can't! 

lady  millicent.     But  supposing  you're  turned  out.     It  will 

be  too  dreadful.     Think  of  the  scandal! 

gentleman.     You  needn't  worry !     I 

lady  millicent.     Don't  flatter  yourself  I  care  what  happens 

to  you.     I  don't  in  the  least.     But  if  there's  a  scandal,  my 

name  will  be  mixed  up  in  it.     People  will  say  you  came  here 

to  see  me. 
gentleman.     I  did  want  to  see  you  awfully  —  but  when  I 

tell  you 

lady  millicent.     I  knew  it.     It's  really  too  absurd.     I've 

never  set  eyes  on  you  before  to-night. 
gentleman.     I've  seen  you,  though,  often  since  I've  been 

in  London.     Whenever  I've  had  the  chance. 


168       IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE   CREATURE 


lady  millicent  (a  little  mollified).  Don't  be  so  absurd. 
You  know  that  your  desire  to  see  me  is  no  excuse.  It's 
not  as  if  I  were  a  beautiful  woman. 

gentleman.     You're  —  ripping. 

lady  millicent  (half  pleased).     Really! 

gentleman.  Your  dress  is  —  ripping,  and  that  thing  in  your 
hair  —  you  look  —  er  —  ripping. 

iady  millicent.     You  don't  seem  to  have  much  command 
of  the  English  language.     This  is  rather  a  nice  gown. 
[Smiling. 

gentleman.  You  look  so  nice  when  you  smile.  So  good- 
tempered  and  —  and 

lady  millicent  (chaffing).     Ripping? 

gentleman.     Yes,  ripping. 

LADY  MILLICENT.       I  thought  SO. 

gentleman.     You're  awfully  clever,  too,  I  expect. 

lady  millicent.     I  expect  you're  awfully  silly. 

gentleman.  Perhaps  I  am.  But  I  like  clever  people.  I 
think  they're  awfully  —  awfully 

lady  millicent.     Ripping. 

gentleman.  No  —  jolly.  (He  laughs,  she  laughs  at  him) 
There,  you're  not  angry  any  more  now.  Let  me  tell  you 
what  I  was  going  to  say  when  I  asked  you  to  come  down 
to  supper  with  me.     The  fact  is,  I 

lady  millicent.  Oh,  really,  you  are  the  most  persistently 
annoying  person!  I  can't  leave  the  house  myself,  because 
I've  promised  my  sister  to  go  down  to  supper  with  some- 
one. 

gentleman.  You  can't  go  down  with  anyone  but  me,  be- 
cause I  am 

lady  millicent.  Please,  please,  I've  told  you  I  don't  want 
to  get  you  into  trouble  because  you  seem  to  be  a  gentle- 
man, and  I'm  sorry  for  you;  you  seem  to  be  rather  nice  — 
I  mean  a  silly  sort  of  person,  and  I  daresay  you've  no 
friends  to  advise  you  and  take  you  in  hand. 

gentleman.     I  wish  you'd  take  me  in  hand. 

lady  millicent.     Well,  if  you'll  only  go  away  now,  you  shall 


IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE  CREATURE   1G0 


find  someone  to  introduce  you  to  me  another  day,  and  I'll 
forget  your  conduct  to-night.  Please  go.  I  ask  you  to. 
I  must  stay  to  supper.  It's  really  unfair  of  you.  Please 
go  quietly  —  you're  making  me  talk  like  a  policeman. 

gentleman.  I  won't  go  unless  you  tell  me  who  you  want 
to  go  down  to  supper  with. 

lady  millicent.     I  decline 

[Rising. 

gentleman  {very  entreatingly) .  Oh,  please,  do.  I  like  hear- 
ing you  talk.  You  were  beginning  to  be  so  nice  just  now. 
Please  tell  me.     Don't  be  unkind. 

LADY  MILLICENT.      Well,  I 

gentleman.     Please. 

lady  millicent.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  consent. 

Well,  will  you  go  away  after  I've  told  you? 
gentleman.     I  will,  as  soon  as  possible. 
lady  millicent.     Well,  then,  as  you're  not  invited,  perhaps 

you  don't  know  that  our  hostess  is  receiving  the  guests  of 

her  brother,  who  is  really  giving  this  dreadful  ball.    Poor 

man! 
gentleman.     Ha,  ha! 
lady  millicent.     What? 

GENTLEMAN.       I  COUghed. 

lady  millicent.  Her  brother  is  Herbert  Barwell,  the  great 
explorer  —  who  only  returned  to  London  the  other  day. 
I've  been  dying  to  meet  him. 

gentleman  (pleased).     Have  you? 

lady  millicent.     Dying  to  meet  him. 

GENTLEMAN .      Why  ? 

lady  millicent.     He's  such  a  splendid  fellow.     I've  read  all 

the  story  of  what  he's  done.     He's  a  hero. 
gentleman  (deprecatingly) .     Oh,  a  hero ! 
lady  millicent.     Yes,   a  hero,  and  I  adore  brave  men. 

Think  of  the  privations  he  endured. 
gentleman.     Oh,  they  weren't  so  bad. 
lady  millicent.     Not  so  bad!     Without  water  —  in  that 

awful  climate,  with  his  men  dying  round  him  like  flies. 


170       IMPERTINENCE  OF  THE   CREATURE 

He  carried  his  servant  on  his  back  for  three  days  and  three 
nights,  and  saved  his  life.    He's  an  honor  to  his  country. 

gentleman.     Oh,  you  make  too  much  of  it. 

lady  millicent  (rising).  Do  I?  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say 
you  think  so.  I'm  sorry  for  any  man  who  can  think  so. 
But  it's  of  no  importance  what  you  think.  I  am  to  be  in- 
troduced to  Mr.  Barwell,  and  he  is  to  take  me  down  to 
supper.  Now  I  have  kept  my  promise  —  keep  yours  —  go. 
(He  sits)  I've  had  enough  of  this.  I  shall  go  to  our 
hostess  —  she  looks  a  vulgar,  fat  old  woman,  but  she  won't 
refuse  me.  I  shall  ask  her  to  tell  her  brother  to  turn  you 
out  of  the  house. 

gentleman.     You  can't  do  that. 

LADY  MILLICENT.      Can't  I? 

gentleman.     No  ! 

LADY  MILLICENT.      Why  not? 

gentleman.  Because  I've  to  take  you  down  to  supper.  I'm 
him. 

lady  millicent.     You're  talking  neither  grammar  nor  sense. 

gentleman.  I  am  the  man  who  is  giving  this  dreadful  ball; 
you're  quite  right,  it  is  rather  dreadful  —  my  sister  —  you're 
right  again,  she  is  rather  vulgar  and  very  fat  —  told  me  to 
find  you  and  introduce  myself,  and  take  you  down  to 
supper. 

LADY  MILLICENT.      What? 

gentleman.     I  am  Herbert  Barwell. 

lady  millicent.  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  say  so  before? 

gentleman.     Well 

lady  millicent.  Oh,  can  you  ever  forgive  me  for  the  dread- 
ful things  I've  been  saying? 

gentleman.  You  said  some  nice  things  about  me.  May  I 
say  some  nice  things  to  you  —  some  very  nice  things  indeed? 

lady  millicent.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  took  me 
down  to  have  some 

gentleman.     Of  the  bad  champagne? 

lady  millicent.     I  expect  it's  ripping. 
[She  takes  his  arm,  and  they  go  off  laughing. 

curtain. 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

ARNOLD  BENNETT 

Arnold  Bennett  was  born  in  the  Shelton  district,  in 
1867,  not  far  from  the  "Five Towns"  which  he  later  cele- 
brated in  his  novels.  Although  he  received  his  early  edu- 
cation at  Newcastle-under-Lyme,  near  to  his  birthplace,  he 
matriculated  at  London  University  about  1885  and  studied 
law  in  his  father's  office.  In  1889  he  left  the  "  Five  Towns  " 
to  establish  himself  definitely  at  London.  It  is  probable 
that  he  received  his  first  encouragement  to  write  as  a  result 
of  his  work  as  London  correspondent  of  a  newspaper  in  his 
home  district.  He  also  won  a  prize  for  a  contribution  to  a 
London  paper,  and  in  the  early  nineties  he  had  seriously 
entered  the  field  of  literature  as  a  contributor  to  the  "Yellow 
Book."  From  1895  on,  Bennett  turned  "free-lance  journal- 
ist, contributing  all  manner  of  articles  to  all  manner  of  maga- 
zines. He  attained  very  soon  a  position  of  some  security 
and  responsibility,  as  sub-editor  and  subsequently  as 
editor  of  the  woman's  journal,  Woman.  ..."  He  also 
"acted,  during  this  period,  as  a  fluent  and  omniscient 
reviewer,  a  dramatic  critic,  a  playwright  and  a  publisher's 

reader." 

The  years  of  apprenticeship  were  almost  over.  "Already 
he  had  decided  to  be  a  successful  author,  and,  as  he  viewed 
it,  the  keeping  of  a  journal  was  a  most  valuable  part  of  the 
apprenticeship  to  that  career."  A  passage  from  this  journal 
(1899)  reveals  not  only  the  extent  of  work  accomplished,  but 
throws  light  on  the  young  author's  perseverance  and  his 
pride  in  work  achieved.     "This  year  I  have  written  335,340 


172  THE   STEPMOTHER 

words,  grand  total  224  articles  and  stories,  and  four  install- 
ments of  a  serial  called  'The  Gates  of  Wrath'  have  actually 
been  published;  also  my  book  of  plays,  'Polite  Farces.' 
My  work  included  six  or  eight  short  stories  not  yet  published, 
also  the  greater  part  of  a  55,000  word  serial  .  .  .  and  the 
whole  draft,  80,000  words,  of  my  Staffordshire  novel,  'Anna 
Tell wright.'  " 

Arnold  Bennett's  most  characteristic  work  is  found  in  his 
novels,  not  in  his  plays.  "The  Stepmother",  one  of  the 
earliest  plays,  is  a  slight  trifle,  better  adapted  to  the  stage, 
however,  than  some  of  his  later  efforts.  In  a  Note  prefacing 
the  volume  "Polite  Farces  ",  he  says: 

'The  three  farces  comprising  the  present  book  have  been 
written  for  drawing-room  performance.  Dumas  pere,  the 
father  of  modern  drama,  once  said  that  all  he  needed  was 
'four  trestles,  four  boards,  two  actors,  and  a  passion.'  For 
myself  I  have  dispensed  with  the  trestles,  the  boards,  and 
the  passion,  since  none  of  these  things  is  suitable  for  a 
drawing-room." 

PLAYS 

*The  Stepmother  (1899)  Milestones  (1912) 
*A  Good  Woman  (1899)  (In  collaboration  with 

*A  Question  of  Sex  (1899)  Edward  Knoblauch) 

Cupid  and  Commonsense  The  Title  (1918) 

(1908)  Judith  (1919) 

What  the  Public  Wants  Sacred   and   Profane   Love 

(1909)  (1920) 

The  Honeymoon  (1911)  Body  and  Soul  (1920) 

The  Great  Adventure  (1911) 

All  of  Bennett's  plays,  with  the  exception  of  the  "Polite 
farces"  ("The  Stepmother",  "A  Good  Woman",  and  "A 
Question  of  Sex"),  are  published  separately  by  George  H. 
Doran  Company,  New  York.  "Polite  Farces",  as  a  single 
volume,  by  the  same  publisher. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  173 

References:  F.  J.  Harvey  Darton,  "Arnold  Bennett", 
Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York;  F.  T.  Cooper,  "Some 
English  Story  Tellers",  Holt;  H.  T.  and  W.  Follett,  "Some 
Modern  Novelists",  Holt;  R.  A.  Scott-James,  "Personality 
in  Literature",  Martin  Seeker,  London. 

Magazines:  Bookman,  vol.  34,  p.  325,  New  York;  Living 
Age,  Series  8,  vol.  4,  p.  771,  Boston. 


THE  STEPMOTHER 


FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 
By  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


'The  Stepmother"  has  not  been  produced  professionally. 

Characters 

Cora  Prout,  a  Popular  Novelist  and  a  Widow,  30 

Adrian  Prout,  her  Stepson,  20 

Thomas  Gardner,  a  Doctor,  35 

Christine  Feversham,  Mrs.  Prout's  Secretary,  20 


Reprinted  from  "Polite  Farces,"  by  permission  of  the  publisher,  George  H.  Doran 

Company. 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

Scene.  Mrs.  Front's  study:  luxuriously  furnished;  large 
table  in  centre,  upon  which  are  a  new  novel,  press-cuttings,  and 
the  usual  apparatus  of  literary  compositions.  Christine  is 
seated  at  the  large  table,  ready  for  work,  and  awaiting  the  ad- 
vent of  Mrs.  Prout.  To  pass  the  time  she  picks  up  the  novel, 
the  leaves  of  which  are  not  cut,  and  glances  at  a  page  here  and 
there.  Enter  Mrs.  Prout,  hurried  and  preoccupied;  the  famous 
novelist  is  attired  in  a  plain  morning  gown,  which  in  the  per- 
fection of  its  cut  displays  the  beauty  of  her  figure.  She  nods 
absently  to  Christine,  and  sits  down  in  an  armchair  away  from 
the  table. 
Christine.     Good  morning,  Mrs.  Prout.     I'm  afraid  you  are 

still  sleeping  badly. 
MRS.  prout.     Do  I  look  it,  girl? 

Christine.     You  don't  specially  look  it,  Mrs.  Prout.    But 
I  observe.     You  are  my  third  novelist,  and  they  have  all 
taught  me  to  observe.     Before  I  took  up  novelists  I  was 
with  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  he  never  observed  any- 
thing except  five-line  whips. 
mrs.  prout.     Really!     Five-line  whips!     Oblige  me  by  put- 
ting that  down  in  Notebook  No.  2.     There  will  be  an 
M.P.  in  that  wretched  thirty-thousand-word  thing  I've 
promised  for  the  Christmas  number  of  the  New  York  Sur- 
priser  and  it  might  be  useful.     I  might  even  make  an 
epigram  out  of  it. 
Christine.     Yes,  Mrs.  Prout.     (Writes.) 
mrs.  prout.     And  what  are  your  observations  about  me? 
Christine  (while  writing).     Well,  this  is  twice  in  three  weeks 

that  you've  been  here  five  minutes  late  in  the  morning. 
mrs.  prout.     Is  that  all?     You  don't  think  my  stuff's  falling 
off? 


178  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Christine.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Prout!  I  know  it's  not  falling  off. 
I  was  just  going  to  tell  you.  The  butler's  been  in,  and 
wished  me  to  inform  you  that  he  begged  to  give  notice. 
(Looking  up)  It  seems  that  last  night  you  ordered  him  to 
cut  the  leaves  of  our  new  novel.  (Patting  book  maternally) 
He  said  he  just  looked  into  it,  and  he  thinks  it's  disgraceful 
to  ask  a  respectable  butler  to  cut  the  leaves  of  such  a  book. 
So  he  begs  to  give  warning.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Prout,  your 
stuff  isn't  falling  off. 

mrs.  prout  (grimly).     What  did  you  say  to  him,  girl? 

Christine.  First  I  looked  at  him,  and  then  I  said,  "  Brown, 
you  will  probably  be  able  to  get  a  place  on  the  reviewing 
staff  of  The  Methodist  Recorder." 

MRS.  prout.  Christine,  one  day,  I  really  believe,  you  will 
come  to  employ  a  secretary  of  your  own. 

Christine.  I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Prout.  But  I  intend  to  keep 
off  the  morbid  introspection  line.  You  do  that  so  awfully 
well.  I  think  I  shall  go  in  for  smart  dialogue,  with  mar- 
quises and  country  houses,  and  a  touch  of  old-fashioned 
human  nature  at  the  bottom.  It  appears  to  me  that's 
what's  coming  along  very  shortly.  .  .  .  Shall  we  begin, 
Mrs.  Prout? 

mrs.  prout  (disinclined).  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  (Clearing  her 
throat)    By  the  way,  anything  special  in  the  press-cuttings? 

Christine.  Nothing  very  special.  (Fingering  the  pile  of  press- 
cuttings)     The  Morning  Call  says,  "genius  in  every  line." 

mrs.  prout  (blase).     Hum! 

Christine.  The  Daily  Reporter:  "Cora  Prout  may  be  tal- 
ented —  we  should  hesitate  to  deny  it  —  but  she  is  one  of 
several  of  our  leading  novelists  who  should  send  themselves 
to  a  Board  School  in  order  to  learn  grammar." 

MRS.  prout.  Grammar  again !  They  must  keep  a  grammar 
in  the  office!  Personally  I  think  its  frightfully  bad  form 
to  talk  about  grammar  to  a  lady.  But  they  never  had  any 
taste  at  the  Reporter.  Don't  read  me  any  more.  Let  us 
commence  work. 

Christine.     Which  will  you  do,  Mrs.  Prout?       (Considting 


THE  STEPMOTHER  179 

a  diary  of  engagements)  There's  the  short  story  for  the 
Illustrated  Monthly,  six  thousand,  promised  for  next  Sat- 
urday. There's  the  article  on  "Women's  Diversions"  for 
the  British  Review  —  they  wrote  for  that  yesterday.  There's 
the  serial  that  begins  in  the  Sunday  Daily  Sentinel  in  Sep- 
tember —  you've  only  done  half  the  first  instalment  of  that. 
And  of  course  there's  Heart  Ache. 

mrs.  prout.  I  think  I'll  go  on  with  Heart  Ache.  I  feel  it 
coming.  I'll  do  the  short  story  for  the  Illustrated  to- 
morrow.    Where  had  I  got  to? 

Christine  (choosing  the  correct  notebook,  reads).  "The  in- 
animate form  of  the  patient  lay  like  marble  on  the  marble 
slab  of  the  operating-table.  'The  sponge,  Nurse,'  said 
the  doctor,  'where  is  it?'       That's  where  you'd  got  to. 

mrs.  prout.  Yes.  I  remember.  New  line.  "Isabel  gazed 
at  him  imperturbably."  New  line.  Quote-marks.  '  'I 
fear,  Doctor,'  she  remarked,  'that  in  a  moment  of  forget - 
fulness  you  have  sewn  it  up  in  our  poor  patient.'  "  New 
line.  Quote-marks.  '  'Damn!'  said  the  doctor,  'so  I 
have.'  '  Rather  good,  that,  Christine,  eh? 
[Christine  writes  in  shorthand. 

Christine.  Oh,  Mrs.  Prout,  I  think  it's  beautiful.  So 
staccato  and  crisp.  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
there's  a  leader  in  the  Daily  Snail  on  that  frightful  anony- 
mous attack  in  the  Forum  against  your  medical  accuracy. 
(Looking  at  Mrs.  Prout,  who  is  silent,  but  shows  signs  of  agi- 
tation) You  remember — "Medicine  in  Fiction."  The 
Snail  backs  up  the  Forum  for  all  it's  worth.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Prout,  you  are  ill.  I  was  sure  you  were.  WThat  can  I  get 
for  you? 

mrs.  prout  (weakly  wiping  her  eyes).  Nonsense,  Christine. 
I  am  a  little  unstrung,  that  is  all.     I  want  nothing. 

Christine.     Your  imagination  is  too  much  for  you. 

mrs.  prout  (meekly).     Perhaps  so. 

Christine  (firmly).  But  it  isn't  all  due  to  an  abnormal 
imagination.  You've  never  been  quite  cheerful  since  you 
turned  Mr.  Adrian  out. 


180  THE  STEPMOTHER 

MRS.  prout.     You  forget  yourself,  Christine. 

Christine.  I  forget  nothing,  Mrs.  Prout,  myself  least 
of  all.  Mr.  Adrian  is  your  dead  husband's  son,  and 
you  turned  him  out  of  your  house,  and  now  you're 
sorry. 

MRS.  prout.  Christine,  you  know  perfectly  well  that  I  — 
er  —  requested  him  to  go  because  he  would  insist  on  making 
love  to  you,  which  interfered  with  our  work.  Besides,  it 
was  not  quite  nice  for  a  man  to  make  love  to  the  secretary 
of  his  stepmother.  I  wonder  you  are  indelicate  enough  to 
refer  to  the  matter.  You  should  never  have  permitted  his 
advances. 

Christine.  I  didn't  permit  them.  I  wasn't  asked  to.  I 
tolerated  them.  I  hadn't  been  secretary  to  a  lady- 
novelist  with  a  stepson  before,  and  I  wasn't  quite  sure 
what  was  included  in  the  duties.  I  always  like  to  give 
satisfaction. 

mrs.  prout.  You  do  give  satisfaction.  Let  that  end  the 
discussion. 

Christine  (pouting;  turning  to  her  notebook;  reads).  "  'Damn!' 
said  the  doctor,  'so  I  have.'"  (Pause)        'Damn!'  said  the 
doctor,  '  so  I  have. 
[Pause. 

mrs.  prout.  Christine,  did  you  find  out  who  was  the  author 
of  that  article  on  "Medicine  in  Fiction"? 

Christine.  Is  that  what's  bothering  you,  Mrs.  Prout?  Of 
course  it  was  a  nasty  attack,  but  it  is  very  unlike  you  to 
trouble  about  critics. 

mrs.  prout.  It  has  hurt  me  more  than  I  can  say.  That  was 
why  I  asked  you  to  make  a  few  discreet  inquiries. 

Christine.     I  did  ask  at  my  club. 

mrs.  prout.     And  what  did  they  think  there? 

Christine.  They  laughed  at  me,  and  said  every  one  knew 
you  had  written  it  yourself  just  to  keep  the  silly  season 
alive,  July  being  a  sickly  month  for  reputations. 

mrs.  prout.     What  did  you  say  to  that? 

Christine.     I  should  prefer  not  to  repeat  it. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  181 

mrs.  prout.     Christine,  I  insist.     Your  modesty  is  becom- 
ing a  disease. 

Christine.     I  said  they  were  fools 

mrs.  prout.     A  little  abrupt,  perhaps,  but  effective. 

Christine.  Not  to  see  that  the  grammar  was  different  from 
ours. 

mrs.  prout.     Oh!  that  was  what  you  said,  was  it? 

Christine.     It  was,  and  it  settled  them. 

mrs.  prout  (assuming  a  confidential  air).  Christine,  I  be- 
lieve I  know  who  wrote  that  article. 

Christine.     Who? 

mrs.  prout.     Dr.  Gardner. 
[Bursts  into  tears. 

Christine  (soothing  her).  But  he  lives  on  the  floor  below, 
in  the  very  flat  underneath  this. 

mrs.  prout  (choking  back  her  sobs).  Yes.  It  is  too 
dreadful. 

Christine.     But  he  comes  here  nearly  every  evening. 

mrs.  prout  (sharply).     Who  told  you  that? 

Christine.  Now,  Mrs.  Prout,  let  me  implore  you  to  be 
calm.  The  butler  told  me.  I  didn't  ask  him,  and  as  I 
cannot  be  expected  to  foretell  what  my  employer's  butler 
will  say  before  he  opens  his  mouth,  I  am  not  to  blame. 
(Compresses  her  lips)     Shall  we  continue? 

mrs.  prout.  Christine,  do  you  think  it  was  Dr.  Gardner? 
I  would  give  worlds  to  know. 

Christine  (coldly  analytic).  Do  you  mean  that  you  would 
give  worlds  to  know  that  it  was  Dr.  Gardner,  or  that  it 
wasn't  Dr.  Gardner?  Or  would  give  worlds  merely  to 
know  the  author's  name  —  no  matter  who  he  might  be? 

mrs.  prout  (sighing).  You  are  dreadfully  unsympathetic 
this  morning. 

Christine.  I  am  placid,  nothing  else.  Please  recollect  that 
when  you  engaged  me  you  asked  if  you  might  rely  on  me 
to  be  placid,  as  your  previous  secretary,  when  you  dictated 
the  pathetic  chapters,  had  wept  so  freely  into  her  notebook 
that  she  couldn't  transcribe  her  stuff,  besides  permanently 


182  THE  STEPMOTHER 

injuring  her  eyesight.  Since  you  ask  my  opinion  as  to 
Dr.  Gardner  being  the  author  of  this  attack  on  you,  I  say 
that  he  isn't.  Apart  from  the  facts  that  he  lives  on  the 
floor  below,  and  that  he  is,  so  the  butler  says,  a  constant 
visitor  in  the  evenings,  there  is  the  additional  fact  —  a  fact 
which  I  have  several  times  observed  for  myself  without 
the  assistance  of  the  butler  —  that  he  likes  you. 

mrs.  prout.  You  have  noticed  that.  It  is  true.  But  the 
question  is:  Does  he  like  me  sufficiently  not  to  attack  my 
work  in  the  public  press?  That  is  the  point.  The  writer 
of  that  cruel  article  begins  by  saying  that  he  has  no  per- 
sonal animus,  and  that  he  is  actuated  solely  by  an  en- 
thusiasm for  the  cause  of  medicine  and  the  medical  pro- 
fession. 

Christine.  You  mean  to  infer,  Mrs.  Prout,  that  the  author 
of  the  article  might,  as  a  man,  like  you,  while  as  a  doctor 
he  despised  you? 

mrs.  prout  (whimpering  again).     That  is  my  suspicion. 

Christine.  But  Dr.  Gardner  does  more  than  like  you.  He 
adores  you. 

mrs.  prout.  He  adores  my  talent,  my  genius,  my  fame, 
my  wealth;  but  does  he  adore  me?  I  am  not  an  ordinary 
woman,  and  it  is  no  use  pretending  that  I  am.  I  must 
think  of  these  things. 

Christine.  Neither  is  Dr.  Gardner  an  ordinary  doctor. 
His  researches  into  toxicology 

MRS.  prout.  His  researches  are  nothing  to  me.  I  wish  he 
wasn't  a  doctor  at  all. 

Christine.  Even  doctors  have  their  place  in  the  world, 
Mrs.  Prout. 

mrs.  prout.  They  should  not  meddle  with  fiction,  poking 
their  noses 

Christine.  But  if  fiction  meddles  with  them?  .  .  .  You 
know  fiction  is  really  very  meddlesome.  It  pokes  its  nose 
with  great  industry. 

mrs.  prout  (pulling  herself  together).  Christine,  you  have 
never  understood  me.     Let  us  continue. 


THE   STEPMOTHER  183 


Christine  (with  an  offended  air,  turning  once  more  to  her  note- 
book).    "  'Damn!'  said  the  doctor,  'so  I  have.'  " 

mrs.  prout  (coughing).     New  line.     "A  smile  flashed  across 

the  lips  of  Isabel  as  she  took  up  a  glittering  knife " 

(Gives  a  great  sob)     Oh,  Christine!     I'm  sure  Dr.  Gardner 
wrote  it. 

Christine.  Very  well,  madam.  He  wrote  it.  We  have  at 
last  settled  something.  (Mrs.  Prout  buries  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Christine  looks  up,  and  after  an  instant's  pause 
springs  toward  her)  You  poor  dear!  You  are  perfectly 
hysterical  this  morning.  You  must  go  and  lie  down  for  a 
little.     A  horizontal  posture  is  what  you  need. 

mrs.  prout.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  will  leave  you  for 
an  hour.  (Totters  to  her  feet)  Take  down  this  note  for  Dr. 
Gardner.  He  may  call  this  morning.  In  fact,  I  rather 
think  he  will.  "The  answer  to  the  question  is  'No'  "  — 
capital  N. 

Christine.     Shall  I  sign  it? 

mrs.  prout.  Yes;  sign  it  "C.  P."  And  if  he  comes,  give 
it  him  yourself,  and  say  that  I  can  see  no  one.  And, 
Christine,  would  you  mind  (crying  gently  again)  seeing  the 
b-b-butler,  and  try  to  reason  him  into  a  sensible  attitude 
towards  my  n-n-novels.  In  my  present  state  of  health  I 
couldn't  stand  any  change.  And  he  is  so  admirable  at 
table. 

Christine.  Shall  I  offer  some  compromise  in  our  next 
novel?  I  might  inquire  what  is  the  irreducible  minimum 
of  his  demands. 

mrs.  prout  (faintly).     Anything,  anything,  if  he  will  stay. 

Christine  (following  Mrs.  Prout  to  the  door,  and  touching  her 
shoulder  caressingly).     Try  to  sleep. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Prout.     Christine  whistles  in  a  low  tone  as  she 
returns  meditatively  to  her  seat. 

Christine  (looking  at  notebook).  "Isabel  took  up  a  glit- 
tering knife,"  did  she?  "The  answer  to  the  question  is 
'No,'  "  with  a  capital  N.  "C.  P."  sounds  like  Carter 
Paterson.     Now,  as  I  have  nothing  to  do,  I  think  I  will 


184  THE  STEPMOTHER 

devote  the  morning  to  an  article  on  "Hysteria  in  Lady 
Novelists."  Um!  Ah!  "The  answer  to  the  question  is 
'No'  "  —  capital  N.  What  question?  Can  it  be  that  the 
lily-white  hand  of  the  author  of  Heart  Ache  has  .  .  . 
(knock)  Come  in. 
[Enter  Dr.  Gardner. 

Gardner.     Oh,  good  morning,  Miss  Feversham. 

Christine.  Good  morning,  Dr.  Gardner.  You  seem  sur- 
prised to  see  me  here.  Yet  I  am  to  be  found  in  this  chair 
daily  at  this  hour. 

Gardner.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  assure  you  I  fully  ex- 
pected to  find  both  you  and  the  chair.  I  also  expected  to 
find  Mrs.  Prout. 

Christine.  Are  you  capable  of  interrupting  our  literary 
labours?  We  do  not  receive  callers  so  early,  Dr.  Gardner. 
Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  several  times  remarked  that 
this  study  ought  not  to  have  a  door  opening  into  the 
corridor. 

Gardner.  As  for  that,  may  I  venture  to  offer  the  excuse 
that  I  had  an  appointment  with  Mrs.  Prout? 

Christine.  At  what  hour?  She  never  makes  appoint- 
ments before  noon. 

Gardner.     I  believe  she  did  say  twelve  o'clock. 

Christine  (looking  at  her  watch).  And  it  is  now  twenty-five 
minutes  to  ten.  Punctuality  is  a  virtue.  You  may  be 
said  to  have  raised  it  to  the  dignity  of  a  fine  art. 

Gardner.  I  will  wait.  (Sits  down)  I  trust  that  I  do  not 
interrupt? 

Christine.  Yes,  Doctor,  I  regret  to  say  that  you  do.  I 
was  about  to  commence  the  composition  of  an  article. 

GARDNER.       Upon  what? 

Christine.     Upon  "Hysteria  in  Lady  Novelists."     It  is  my 

specialty. 
Gardner.     Surely  lady  novelists  are  not  hysterical? 
Christine.     The  increase  of  hysteria  among  that  class  of 

persons  is  one  of  the  saddest  features  of  the  age. 
Gardner.     Dear  me!  (Enthusiastically)     But  I  can  tell  you 


THE  STEPMOTHER  185 

the  name  of  one  lady  novelist  who  isn't  hysterical- — and 
that,  perhaps,  the  greatest  name  of  all  —  Mrs.  Prout. 

Christine.  Of  course  not,  of  course  not,  Doctor.  Neverthe- 
less, Mrs.  Prout  is  somewhat  indisposed  this  morning. 

Gardner.     Cora  —  ill!     What  is  it?     Nothing  serious? 

Christine.  Rest  assured.  The  merest  slight  indisposition. 
Just  sufficient  to  delay  us  an  hour  or  two  with  our  work. 
Nothing  more.  Nerves,  you  know.  The  imagination  of 
a  great  artist,  Dr.  Gardner,  is  often  too  active,  too  stress- 
ful, for  the  frail  physical  organism. 

Gardner.     Ah!    You  regard  Mrs.  Prout  as  a  great  artist? 

Christine.  Doctor  —  even  to  ask  such  a  question  .  .  .! 
Do  not  you? 

Gardner.  I?  To  me  she  is  unique.  I  say,  Miss  Fever- 
sham,  were  you  ever  in  love? 

Christine.     In  love?     I  have  had  preferences. 

Gardner.     Among  men? 

Christine.  No;  among  boys.  Recollect  I  am  only  twenty, 
though  singularly  precocious  in  shrewdness  and  calm 
judgment. 

Gardner.  Twenty?  You  amaze  me,  Miss  Feversham.  I 
have  often  been  struck  by  your  common  sense  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  They  would  do  credit  to  a  woman  of 
fifty. 

Christine.  I  am  glad  to  notice  that  you  do  not  stoop  to 
offer  me  vulgar  compliments  about  my  face. 

Gardner.  I  am  incapable  of  such  conduct.  I  esteem  your 
mental  qualities  too  highly.  And  so  you  have  had  your 
preferences  among  boys? 

Christine.  Yes,  I  like  to  catch  them  from  eighteen  to 
twenty.  They  are  so  sweet  and  fresh  then,  like  new  milk. 
The  employe  of  the  Express  Dairy  Company  who  leaves  me 
my  half-pint  at  my  lodgings  each  morning  is  a  perfectly 
lovely  dear.     I  adore  him. 

Gardner.     He  is  one  of  your  preferences,  then? 

Christine.  A  preference  among  milkmen,  of  whom,  as  I 
change   my   lodgings   frequently,    I   have   known   many. 


186  THE   STEPMOTHER 

Then  there  is  the  postman  —  not  a  day  more  than  eighteen, 
I  am  sure,  though  that  is  contrary  to  the  regulations  of 
St.  Martin's-le-Grand.  Dr.  Gardner,  you  should  see  my 
postman.  When  he  brings  them  I  can  receive  even  re- 
jected articles  with  equanimity. 

Gardner.  I  should  be  charmed  to  see  him.  But  tell  me, 
Miss  Feversham,  have  you  had  no  serious  preferences? 

Christine.  You  seem  interested  in  this  question  of  prefer- 
ences. 

GARDNER.       I  am. 

Christine.  Doctor,  I  will  open  my  heart  to  you.  It  is 
conceivable  you  may  be  of  use  to  me.  You  are  on  friendly 
terms  with  Adrian,  and  doubtless  you  know  the  history  of 
his  exit  from  this  house.  {Gardner  nods,  with  a  smile) 
Doctor,  he  and  I  aie  passionately  attached  to  each  other. 
Our  ages  are  precisely  alike.  It  is  a  beautiful  idyll,  or 
rather  it  would  be,  if  dear  Mrs.  Prout  did  not  try  to  trans- 
form it  into  a  tragedy.  She  has  not  only  turned  the 
darling  boy  out,  but  she  has  absolutely  forbidden  him  the 
house. 

Gardner.     Doubtless  she  had  her  reasons. 

Christine.  Oh,  I'm  sure  she  had.  Only,  you  see,  her 
reasons  aren't  ours.  Of  course  we  could  marry  at  once  if 
we  chose.  I  could  easily  keep  Adrian.  I  do  not,  how- 
ever, wish  to  inconvenience  dear  Mrs.  Prout.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  quarrel  with  the  rich  relations  of  one's  future 
husband.  But  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  you,  Doctor, 
might  persuade  dear  Mrs.  Prout  that  my  marriage  to 
Adrian  need  not  necessarily  interfere  with  the  performance 
of  my  duties  as  her  secretary. 

Gardner.  Anything  that  I  can  do,  Miss  Feversham,  you 
may  rely  on  me  doing. 

Christine.     You  are  a  dear. 

Gardner.  But  why  should  you  imagine  that  I  have  any 
influence  with  Mrs.  Prout? 

Christine.  I  do  not  imagine;  I  know.  It  is  my  unerring 
insight  over  again,  my  faultless  observation.     Doctor,  you 


THE  STEPMOTHER  187 

did  not  begin  to  question  me  about  love  because  you  were 
interested  in  my  love  affairs,  but  because  you  were  in- 
terested in  your  own,  and  couldn't  keep  off  the  subject. 
I  read  you  like  a  book.  You  love  Mrs.  Prout,  my  dear 
Doctor.  Therefore  you  have  influence  over  her.  No 
woman  is  uninfluenced  by  the  man  who  loves  her. 

Gardner  {laughing  between  self-satisfaction  and  self -conscious- 
ness). You  have  noticed  that  I  admire  Mrs.  Prout?  It 
appears  that  nothing  escapes  you. 

Christine.     That  is  a  trifle.     The  butler  has  noticed  it. 

Gardner.     The  butler! 

Christine.     The  butler. 

Gardner  {with  abandon).  Let  him.  Let  the  whole  world 
notice.  Miss  Feversham,  be  it  known  that  I  love  Mrs. 
Prout  with  passionate  adoration.  Before  the  day  is  out 
I  shall  either  be  her  affianced  bridegroom  —  or  I  shall  be  a 
dead  man. 

Christine  {leaning  forward;  in  a  low,  tense  voice).  You  pro- 
posed to  her  last  night? 

GARDNER.       I  did. 

Christine.  And  you  were  to  come  for  the  answer  this 
morning? 

Gardner.  Yes.  Can  you  not  guess  that  I  am  eager  —  ex- 
cited? Can  you  not  pardon  me  for  thinking  it  is  noon  at 
twenty -five  minutes  to  ten?  Ah,  Miss  Feversham,  if 
Adrian  adores  you  with  one-tenth  of  the  fire  with  which  I 
adore  Mrs.  Prout 

Christine.  Stop,  Doctor,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  burnt  sac- 
rifice. Now  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  You  have  seen 
that  attack  on  Mrs.  Prout,  entitled  "Medicine  in 
Fiction",  in  this  month's  Forum.  Do  you  know  the 
author  of  it? 

Gardner.     I  don't.     Has  it  disturbed  Mrs.  Prout? 

Christine.     It  has.     Did  she  not  mention  it  to  you? 

Gardner.  Not  a  word.  If  I  did  know  the  author  of  it,  if 
I  ever  do  know  the  author  of  it,  I  will  tear  him  {fiercely) 
limb  from  limb. 


188  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Christine.     I  trust  you  will  chloroform  him  first.     It  will  be 

horrid  of  you  if  you  don't. 
Gardner.     I  absolutely  decline  to  chloroform  him  first. 

CHRISTINE.       YOU  must. 
GARDNER.      I  Won't. 

Christine.  Never  mind.  Perhaps  you  will  be  dead.  Re- 
member that  you  have  promised  to  kill  yourself  to-day  on 
a  certain  contingency.  Should  you  really  do  it?  Should 
you  really  put  an  end  to  your  life  if  Mrs.  Prout  gave  you 
a  refusal? 

Gardner.  I  swear  it.  Existence  would  be  valueless  to 
me. 

Christine.  By  the  way,  Mrs.  Prout  told  me  that  if  you 
called  I  was  to  say  that  she  could  see  no  one. 

Gardner.     See  no  one!     But  she  promised   .    .    . 

Christine.     However,  she  left  a  note. 

Gardner  {starting  up).  Give  it  me  instantly.  Why  didn't 
you  give  it  me  before? 

Christine.  I  had  no  opportunity.  Besides,  I  haven't 
transcribed  it  yet.     It  was  dictated. 

Gardner.     Dictated?     Are  you  sure? 

Christine  (seriously).     Oh,  yes,  she  dictates  everything. 

Gardner.  Well,  well,  read  it  to  me,  read  it  to  me.  Quick, 
I  say. 

Christine  (turning  over  leaves  rapidly).  Here  it  is.  Are 
you  listening? 

Gardner.     Great  Heaven! 

Christine  (reads  from  her  shorthand  note).  "The  answer  to 
your  question  is " 

GARDNER.       Go  On. 

Christine  (drawing  her  breath  first) .     "  Yes.  —  C.  P."  There ! 

I've  saved  your  life  for  you. 
Gardner.     You  have  indeed,  my  dear  girl.     But  I  must  see 

her.     I  must  see  my  beloved  Cora. 
Christine  (taking  his  hand).     Accept  my  advice,  Doctor  — 

the  advice  of  a  simple,  artless  girl.     Do  not  attempt  to  see 

her  to-day.     There  are  seasons  of  emotion  when  a  woman 


THE   STEPMOTHER  189 

(stops)    .   .    .   Go  downstairs  and  write  to  her,  and  then 
give  the  letter  to  me. 
[Pats  him  on  the  back. 

Gardner.  I  will,  by  Jove.  Miss  Feversham,  you're  a  good 
sort.  And  as  you've  told  me  something,  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing.    Adrian  is  going  to  storm  the  castle  to-day. 

Christine.     Adrian ! 

[A  knock.     Enter  Adrian. 

Adrian.     Since  you  command  it,  I  enter. 

Gardner.     Let  me  pass,  bold  youth. 
[Exit  Dr.  Gardner  hurriedly. 

Adrian  (overcome  by  Gardner's  haste).  Why  this  avalanche? 
Has  something  happened  suddenly? 

Christine.  Several  things  have  happened  suddenly,  Ad- 
rian, and  several  more  will  probably  happen  when  your 
mamma  discovers  that  you  are  defying  her  orders  in  this 
audacious  manner.  Why  are  you  here?  (Kisses  him) 
You  perfect  duck! 

Adrian  (gravely).     I  am  not  here,  Miss  Feversham 

Christine.  "  Miss  Feversham  "  —  and  my  kiss  still  warm  on 
his  lips! 

Adrian.  I  repeat,  Miss  Feversham,  that  I  am  not  here. 
This  (pointing  to  himself)  is  not  I.  It  is  merely  a  rather 
smart  member  of  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Snail,  come  to  in- 
terview Cora  Prout,  the  celebrated  novelist. 

Christine.     And  I  have  kissed  a  Snail  reporter.     Ugh! 

Adrian.     Impetuosity  has  ruined  many  women. 

Christine.  It  is  a  morning  of  calamities.  (Assuming  the 
secretarial  pose)     Your  card,  please. 

Adrian  (handing  card).     With  pleasure. 

Christine  (taking  card  by  the  extreme  corner,  perusing  it  with 
disdain,  and  then  dropping  it  on  the  floor).  We  never  see 
interviewers  in  the  morning. 

Adrian.     Then  I  will  call  this  afternoon. 

Christine.     You  must  write  for  an  appointment. 

Adrian.     Oh!    I'll  take  my  chances,  thanks. 

Christine.     We  never  give  them:  it  is  our  rule.     We  have 


190  THE  STEPMOTHER 

to  be  very  particular.  The  fact  is,  we  hate  being  inter- 
viewed, and  we  only  submit  to  the  process  out  of  a  respect- 
ful regard  for  the  great  and  enlightened  public.  Any  sort 
of  notoriety,  any  suggestion  of  self-advertisement,  is  dis- 
tasteful to  us.  What  do  you  wish  to  interview  us  about? 
If  it's  the  new  novel,  we  are  absolutely  mum.  Accept  that 
from  me. 

Adrian.  It  isn't  the  new  novel.  The  Snail  wishes  to  know 
whether  Mrs.  Prout  feels  inclined  to  make  any  statement 
in  reply  to  that  article,  "Medicine  in  Fiction",  in  the 
Forum.  • 

Christine.  Oh,  Adrian,  do  you  know  anything  about  that 
article? 

Adrian.     Rather!     I  know  all  about  it. 

Christine.  You  treasure!  You  invaluable  darling!  I  will 
marry  you  to-morrow  morning  by  special  license 

Adrian.  Recollect,  it  is  a  Snail  reporter  whom  you  are  ad- 
dressing.    Suppose  I  were  to  print  that! 

Christine.  Just  so.  You  are  prudence  itself,  while  I,  for 
the  moment,  happen  to  be  a  little  —  a  little  abnormal.  I 
saved  a  man's  life  this  morning,  and  it  is  apt  to  upset  one's 
nerves.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  do  —  to  save  a  man's  life. 
And  the  consequences  will  be  simply  frightful  for  me. 
[Buries  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Adrian.  Christine  (taking  her  hands),  what  are  you  raving 
about?     You  are  not  yourself. 

Christine.  I  wish  I  wasn't.  (Looking  up  with  forced  calm) 
Adrian,  there  is  a  possibility  of  your  being  able  to  save  me 
from  the  results  of  my  horrible  act,  if  only  you  will  tell 
me  the  name  of  the  author  of  that  article  in  the  Forum. 

Adrian  (tenderly).  Christine,  you  little  know  what  you  ask. 
But  for  you  I  will  do  anything.    .    .    .   Kiss  me,  my  white 

lily. 

[She  kisses  him. 
Christine  (whispers).   Tell  me. 

[He  folds  her  in  his  arms.     Enter  Mrs.  Prout,  excitedly. 
mrs.  prout  (as  she  enters).     Christine,  that  appalling  butler 


THE  STEPMOTHER  191 

has    actually    left    the    house    .    .    .    (Observing    group) 
Heavens ! 

Christine  (quietly  disengaging  herself).  You  seem  a  little 
better,  Mrs.  Prout.  A  person  to  interview  you  from  the 
Daily  Snail.     [Pointing  to  Adrian. 

mrs.  prout.     Adrian! 

Adrian.     Yes,  mamma. 

mrs.  prout  (opening  her  lips  to  speak  and  then  closing  them). 
Sit  down. 

Adrian.     Certainly,  Mamma.    [Sits. 

mrs.  prout.     How  dare  you  come  here? 

Adrian.     I  don't  know  how,  Mamma. 

[Picks  up  his  card  from  the  floor  and  hands  it  to  her;  then  re- 
sumes his  seat. 

mrs.  prout  (glancing  at  card).     Pah! 

Christine.  That's  just  what  I  told  the  person,  Mrs.  Prout. 
[Mrs.  Prout  burns  her  up  with  a  glance. 

mrs.  prout.  You  have,  then,  abandoned  your  medical 
studies,  for  which  I  had  paid  all  the  fees? 

Adrian.  Yes,  Mamma.  You  see,  I  was  obliged  to  earn 
something  at  once.  So  I  took  to  journalism.  I  am  get- 
ting on  quite  nicely.  The  editor  of  the  Snail  says  that  I 
may  review  your  next  book. 

mrs.  prout.  Unnatural  stepson,  to  review  in  cold  blood 
the  novel  of  your  own  stepmother!  But  this  morning  I 
am  getting  used  to  misfortunes. 

Adrian.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  hear  you  refer  to  any 
action  of  mine  as  a  misfortune  for  you .  Perhaps  you  would 
prefer  that  I  should  at  once  relieve  you  of  my  presence? 

mrs.  prout.  Decidedly,  yes  —  that  is,  if  Christine  thinks  she 
can  do  without  the  fifth  act  of  that  caress  which  I  inter- 
rupted. 

Christine.     The  curtain  was  already  falling,  madam. 

mrs.  prout.     Very  well.     (To  Adrian)     Good-day. 

Adrian.  As  a  stepson  I  retire.  As  the  "special"  of  the 
Daily  Snail  I  must  insist  on  remaining.  A  "special"  of 
the  Daily  Snail  is  incapable  of  being  snubbed.     He  knows 


192  THE  STEPMOTHER 

what  he  wants,  and  he  gets  it,  or  he  ceases  to  be  a  "  special " 
of  the  Daily  Snail. 

mrs.  prout.  I  esteem  the  press,  and  though  I  should  prefer 
an  existence  of  absolute  privacy,  I  never  refuse  its  de- 
mands. I  sacrifice  myself  to  my  public,  freely  acknowl- 
edging that  a  great  artist  has  no  exclusive  right  to  the 
details  of  his  own  daily  life.  A  great  artist  belongs  to  the 
world.     What  is  it  you  want,  Mr.  Snail? 

Adrian.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  care  to  say  anything 
in  reply  to  that  article  on  "Medicine  in  Fiction"  in  the 
Forum. 

mrs.  prout  (sinking  back  in  despair).  That  article  again! 
(Sitting  up)     Tell  me  —  do  you  know  the  author? 

ADRIAN.      I  do. 

mrs.  prout.     His  name! 

Adrian.     He  is  a  friend  of  mine. 

mrs.  prout.     His  name! 

Adrian.  I  am  informed  that  in  writing  it  he  was  actuated 
by  the  highest  motives.  His  desire  was  not  only  to  make 
a  little  money,  but  to  revenge  himself  against  a  person 
who  had  deeply  injured  him.  He  didn't  know  much  about 
medicine,  being  only  a  student,  and  probably  the  larger 
part  of  his  arguments  could  not  be  sustained,  but  he  knew 
enough  to  make  a  show,  and  he  made  it. 

mrs.  prout.     His  name!     I  insist. 

Adrian.  Adrian  Spout  or  Prout  —  I  have  a  poor  memory.  .  .  . 

mrs.  prout.     Is  it  possible? 

Christine.     Monster! 

Adrian.  Need  I  defend  myself,  Mamma?  Consider  what 
you  had  done  to  me.  You  had  devastated  my  young 
heart,  which  was  just  unfolding  to  its  first  passion.  You 
had  blighted  the  springtime  of  the  exquisite  creature 
(looking  at  Christine,  who  is  moved  by  the  feeling  in  his 
tones)  —  the  exquisite  creature  who  was  dearer  to  me  than 
all  the  world.  In  place  of  the  luxury  of  my  late  father's 
house  you  offered  me  —  the  street.    .    .    . 

Christine.     Yes    .    .    .    and  Gower  Street. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  193 

Adrian.  You,  who  should  have  gently  fostered  and  en- 
couraged the  frail  buds  of  my  energy  and  intelligence  — 
you  cast  me  forth    .    .    . 

Christine.     Cast  them  forth. 

Adrian.  Cast  them  forth,  untimely  plucked,  to  wither,  and 
perhaps  die,  in  the  deserts  of  a  great  city.  And  for  what? 
For  what? 

Christine.  Merely  lest  she  should  be  deprived  of  my  poor 
services.  Ah!  Mrs.  Prout,  can  you  wonder  that  Mr. 
Adrian  should  actively  resent  such  conduct  —  you  with 
your  marvellous  knowledge  of  human  nature? 

mrs.  prout.     Adrian,  did  you  really  write  it? 

Adrian.  Why,  of  course.  You  seem  rather  pleased  than 
otherwise,  Mamma. 

mrs.  prout  {after  cogitating).  Ah!  You  didn't  write  it, 
really.     You  are  just  boasting.     It  is  a  plot,  a  plot! 

Adrian.  I  can  prove  that  I  wrote  it,  since  you  impugn  my 
veracity. 

mrs.  prout.    How  can  you  prove  it? 

Adrian.  By  producing  the  cheque  which  I  received  from 
the  Forum  this  very  morning. 

mrs.  prout.     Produce  it,  and  I  will  forgive  all. 

Adrian  {with  a  sign  to  Christine  that  he  entirely  fails  to  com- 
prehend the  situation).     I  fly.     It  is  in  my  humble  attic, 
round  the  corner.     Back  in  two  minutes. 
[Exit  Adrian. 

mrs.  prout.     Christine,  did  he  really  write  it? 

Christine.  Can  you  doubt  his  word?  Was  it  for  lying 
that  you  ejected  the  poor  youth  from  this  residence? 

mrs.  prout.  Ah!  If  he  did!  {Smiles)  Of  course  Dr.  Gard- 
ner has  not  called? 

Christine.     Yes,  he  was  in  about  twenty  minutes  ago. 

mrs.  prout  {agonised).     Did  you  give  him  my  note? 

CHRISTINE.      No. 

mrs.  prout.     Thank  Heaven! 

Christine.     I  had  not  copied  it  out,  so  I  read  it  to  him. 

mrs.  prout.     You  read  it  to  him? 


194  THE  STEPMOTHER 


Christine.     Yes;  that  seemed  the  obvious  thing  to  do. 

mrs.  prout  (in  black  despair).     All  is  over. 
[Sinks  back.     Enter  Dr.  Gardner  hastily. 

Gardner  (excited).  I  was  looking  out  of  the  window  of  my 
flat  when  I  saw  Adrian  tear  along  the  street.  I  said  to 
myself,  "A  man,  even  a  reporter,  only  runs  like  that  when 
a  doctor  is  required,  and  urgently  required.  Some  one  is 
ill,  perhaps  my  darling  Cora."     So  I  flew  upstairs. 

mrs.  prout  (with  a  shriek).     Dr.  Gardner! 

Gardner.  You  are  indeed  ill,  my  beloved.  (Approaching 
her)     What  is  the  matter? 

mrs.  prout  (waving  him  off).  It  is  nothing,  Doctor.  Could 
you  get  me  some  salts?     I  have  mislaid  mine  [Sighs. 

Gardner.     Salts!     In  an  instant. 
[Exit  Dr.  Gardner. 

mrs.  prout.  Christine,  you  said  you  read  my  note  to  Dr. 
Gardner. 

Christine.     Yes,  Mrs.  Prout. 

mrs.  prout.  His  behaviour  is  singular  in  the  extreme.  He 
seems  positively  overjoyed,  while  the  freedom  of  his  en- 
dearing epithets What  were   the   precise  terms   I 

used?     Read  me  the  note. 

Christine.  Yes,  Mrs.  Prout.  (Reads  demurely)  "The 
answer  to  your  question  is  'Yes,'  " — with  a  capital  N. 

mrs.  prout.     "Yes"  with  a  capital  N? 

Christine  (calmly).     I  mean  with  a  capital  F. 

[Christine  and  Mrs.  Prout  look  steadily  at  each  other.     Then 
they  both  smile.     Enter  Dr.  Gardner. 

Gardner  (handing  the  salts).     You  are  sure  you  are  not  ill? 

mrs.  prout  (smiling  at  him  radiantly).  I  am  convinced  of 
if  Christine,  will  you  kindly  reach  me  down  the  diction- 
ary from  that  shelf? 

[While  Christine's  back  is  turned  Dr.  Gardner  gives,    and 
Mrs.  Prout  returns,  a  passionate  kiss. 

Christine  (handing  dictionary).     Here  it  is,  Mrs.  Prout. 

mrs.  prout  (after  considting  it).  I  thought  I  could  not  be 
mistaken.     Christine,  you  have  rendered  me  a  service 


THE   STEPMOTHER  195 


(regarding  her  affectionately)  —  a  service  for  which  I  shall 
not  forget  to  express  my  gratitude;  but  I  am  obliged  to 
dismiss  you  instantly  from  my  service. 

Christine.     Dismiss  me,  madam? 

Gardner.     Cora,  can  you  be  so  cruel? 

mrs.  prout.  Alas,  yes!  She  has  sinned  the  secretarial  sin 
which  is  beyond  forgiveness.     She  has  misspelt. 

Gardner.     Impossible! 

mrs.  prout.     It  is  too  true. 

Gardner.     Tell  me  the  sad  details. 

mrs.  prout.  She  has  been  guilty  of  spelling  "No"  with 
a  "Y." 

Gardner.     Dear   me!     And  a  word   of  one   syllable,   too! 
Miss  Feversham,  I  should  not  have  thought  it  of  you. 
[Enter  Adrian. 

Adrian  (as  he  hands  a  cheque  for  Mrs.  Prout' 's  inspection). 
Here  again,  Doctor? 

Gardner.     Yes,  and  to  stay. 

mrs.  prout.  Adrian,  the  Doctor  and  I  are  engaged  to  be 
married.  And  talking  of  marriage,  you  observe  that  girl 
there  in  the  corner.  Take  her  and  marry  her  at  the 
earliest  convenient  moment.  She  is  no  longer  my 
secretary. 

Adrian.     What!     You  consent? 

mrs.  prout.     I  consent. 

Adrian.     And  you  pardon  my  article? 

mrs.  prout.  No,  my  dear  Adrian,  I  ignore  it.  Here,  take 
your  ill-gotten  gains.  (Returning  cheque)  They  will  bring 
you  no  good.  And  since  they  will  bring  you  no  good,  I 
have  decided  to  allow  you  the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds 
a  year.     You  must  have  something. 

Adrian.     Stepmother! 

Christine  (advancing  to  take  Mrs.  Prout* s  hand).  Step- 
mother-in-law  ! 

Gardner.     Cora,  you  are  an  angel. 

mrs.  prout.  Merely  an  artist,  my  dear  Tom,  merely  an 
artist.     I  have  the  dramatic  sense  —  that  is  all. 


196  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Adrian.     Your  sense  is  more  than  dramatic,  it  is  common; 

it   is    even   horse.      What   about    the    Snail    "  special ", 

mummy? 
mrs.  prout.     My  attitude  is  one  of  strict  silence. 
Adrian.     But  I  must  go  away  with  something. 
mrs.    prout.     Strict  silence.     The  attack  is  beneath   my 

notice. 
Adrian.     But  what  can  I  say? 
Christine.     Say  that  Mrs.    Prout's   late    secretary,    Miss 

Feversham,  having  retired  from  her  post,   has   already 

entered  upon  a  career  of  original  literary    composition. 

That  will  be  a  nice  newsy  item,  won't  it? 
Adrian  {taking  out  notebook).    Rather!    What  is  she  at  work 

on? 

Christine.     Oh,  welL  I  scarcely 

Gardner.     I  know  —  "  Hysteria  in  Lady  Novelists." 
MRS.  prout.     What? 

Gardner  (to  Christine).     Didn't  you  tell  me  so? 
Christine.     Of  course  I  didn't,  Doctor.     What  a  shocking 

memory  you  have!     It  is  worse  than  my  spelling. 
Gardner.     Then  what  did  you  say? 
Christine.     I  said,  "Generosity  in  Lady  Novelists." 

curtain 


ROCOCO 

GRANVILLE  BARKER 

H.  Granville  Barker  was  born  at  London  in  1877.  He 
appears  to  have  begun  his  stage  career  at  an  early  age,  when 
he  became  an  actor  in  a  provincial  company.  His  first 
London  appearance  was  in  1892.  He  subsequently  acted 
with  Lewis  Waller,  Ben  Greet,  and  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell, 
and  participated  in  the  productions  of  the  Elizabethan 
Stage  Society.  Becoming  identified  later  with  the  Stage 
Society,  he  produced  and  acted  in  a  number  of  Bernard 
Shaw's  early  plays.  In  1904  he  undertook,  together  with 
J.  E.  Vedrenne,  the  management  of  the  Court  Theater, 
where  he  successfully  experimented  in  a  repertory  scheme, 
producing  many  new  plays  by  Shaw,  St.  John  Hankin, 
Barrie  and  Galsworthy.  He  continued  his  managerial  ac- 
tivities at  the  Duke  of  York's  Theater,  the  Savoy  —  where  his 
Shakespearian  revivals  were  produced  —  the  St.  James,  and 
the  Kingsway.  During  the  past  few  years  Mr.  Barker  has 
adapted  plays,  written  about  the  theater,  and  lectured,  both 
in  England  and  the  United  States. 

Granville  Barker's  plays  are,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word, 
experiments  in  form.  They  are  a  good  deal  more  than  tech- 
nical feats,  to  be  sure,  but  one  feels  that  they  are  primarily 
quests  after  a  newer  and  more  flexible  medium  than  that 
which  the  workers  in  the  traditional  form  habitually  use. 
"The  Madras  House  ",  for  example,  judged  by  the  standards 
of  Pinero,  is  hardly  a  play  at  all;  its  artistic  unity  lies  rather 
in  the  theme  than  in  the  actual  plot.  In  "Waste",  the 
theme  again  —  more  concrete  than  in  "The  Madras  House" 
—  dominates  the  form.  "The  Voysey  Inheritance  ",  a  study 
of  upper  middle-class  English  life,  comes  nearer  to  the  tradi- 


198  ROCOCO 


tional  dramatic  form.     It  is  Mr.  Barker's  most  successful 
play. 

"Rococo  "  is  the  best  of  the  short  plays;  it  reveals  the 
dramatist,  as  in  the  more  ambitious  works,  as  an  artist 
in  quest  of  the  proper  means  of  expression,  the  most  effective 
medium  for  the  dramatic  presentation  of  human  character 
and  ideas. 

PLAYS 

The   Weather   Hen    (1899)  Waste  (1909) 

(In  collaboration  with  The  Madras  House  (1910) 

Herbert  Thomas)  *Rococo  (1912) 

The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete  The  Harlequinade  (1913) 
(1901)  (In   collaboration   with 

Prunella  (1904)  Dion  Clayton  Calthrop) 

(In  collaboration  with  Vote  by  Ballot  (1914) 

Laurence  Housman)  Farewell  to  the  Theatre 

The  Voysey  Inheritance  (1916) 

(1905) 

"The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete  ",  "Prunella  ",  "The  Voysey 
Inheritance",  "Waste",  "The  Madras  House",  and  "The 
Harlequinade"  are  published  separately  by  Little,  Brown 
and  Company,  Boston;  "The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete", 
"The  Voysey  Inheritance",  and  "Waste",  also  in  a  single 
volume,  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company;  "Rococo",  "Vote 
by  Ballot",  and  "Farewell  to  the  Theater"  in  a  single 
volume  only,  as  "Three  Short  Plays",  by  Little,  Brown  and 
Company. 

References:  Granville  Barker,  Prefaces  to  his  own  edi- 
tions of  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ",  "Twelfth  Night ", 
and  "A  Winter's  Tale",  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London; 
and  to  "Three  Plays  of  Maeterlinck",  Gowans  and  Gray, 
London;  William  Archer  and  Granville  Barker,  "Schemes 
and  Estimates  for  a  National  Theater  ",  Duffield  and  Com- 
pany, New  York. 


ROCOCO  199 


Magazines:  Bookman,  July,  1914,  London;  The  Forum, 
vol.  xliv,  p.  159,  New  York;  Bookman,  vol.  xxxv,  p.  195, 
New  York;  Fortnightly  Review,  vol.  xcv,  p.  60,  and  vol.  c, 
p.  100,  London;  Nation,  vol.  xci,  p.  19,  and  vol.  xciv,  p.  445, 
New  York;  Harper's  Weekly,  vol.  lvi,  p.  6,  New  York;  North 
American  Review,  vol.  cxcv,  p.  5720,  New  York;  The  Drama, 
No.  2,  Chicago. 


ROCOCO 

A  FARCE 
By  GRANVILLE  BARKER 


'Rococo"  was  first  produced  at  London  in  1911. 

Characters 
The  Vicar 
Reginald,  his  nephew 
Mrs.  Reginald 

Mrs.  Underwood,  the  Vicar's  wife 
Miss  Underwood,  the  Vicar's  sister 
Mortimer  Uglow,  Reginald' s  father 


Copyright,  1917,  by  Granyille  Barker. 

Reprinted  from  "Three  Short  Plays",  published  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company, 
by  permission  of  the  Paget  Dramatic  Agency.  "Kococo"  is  fully  protected  by  copy- 
right and  must  not  be  performed  either  by  amateurs  or  professionals  without  written 
pel  mission.  For  such  permission,  and  for  the  "acting  version,"  with  full  stage  directions, 
apply  to  the  Paget  Dramatic  Agency,  500  Fifth  Ave,  New  York  City. 


ROCOCO 

Do  you  know  how  ugly  the  drawing-room  of  an  English  vicar- 
age can  be?  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  all  that  there  should  be  about 
it;  the  old-world  grace  and  charm  of  Jane-Austenism.  One 
should  sit  upon  Chippendale  and  glimpse  the  grey  Norman 
church-tower  through  the  casement.  But  what  of  the  pious  foun- 
dations of  a  more  industrial  age,  churches  built  in  mid-nineteenth 
century  and  rather  scamped  in  the  building,  dedicated  to  the 
Glory  of  God  and  the  soul's  health  of  some  sweating  and  sweated 
urban  district?  The  Bishop  would  have  a  vicarage  added, 
grumbled  the  church-donor.  Well,  then,  consider  his  comfort  a 
little,  but  to  the  glory  of  the  Vicar  nothing  need  be  done.  And 
nothing  was.  The  architect  (this  an  added  labour  of  but  little 
love  to  him)  would  give  an  ecclesiastical  touch  to  the  front  porch, 
a  pointed  top  to  the  front  door,  add  some  stained  glass  to  the 
staircase  window.  But  a  mean  house,  a  stuffy  house,  and  the 
Vicar  must  indeed  have  fresh  air  in  his  soul  if  mean  and  stuffy 
doctrine  was  not  to  be  generated  there. 

The  drawing-room  would  be  the  best  room,  and  not  a  bad  room 
in  its  way,  if  it  weren't  that  its  proportions  were  vile,  as  though 
it  felt  it  wanted  to  be  larger  than  it  was,  and  if  the  window  and 
the  fireplace  and  the  door  didn't  seem  to  be  quarrelling  as  to  which 
should  be  the  most  conspicuous.     The  fireplace  wins. 

This  particidar  one  in  this  particular  drawing-room  is  of 
yellow  wood,  stained  and  grained.  It  reaches  not  quite  to  the 
ceiling.  It  has  a  West  Front  air,  if  looking-glass  may  stand 
for  windows;  it  is  fretted,  moreover,  here  and  there,  with  little 
trefoil  holes.  It  bears  a  full  assaidt  of  the  Vicar's  wife's  ideas 
of  how  to  make  the  place  "look  nice."  There  is  the  clock,  of 
course,  which  won't  keep  time;  there  are  the  vases  which  won't 
hold  water;  framed  photographs,  as  many  as  can  be  crowded  on 
the  shelves;  in  every  other  crevice  knickknacks.     Then,   if  you 


204  ROCOCO 


stand,  as  the  Vicar  often  stands,  at  this  point  of  vantage  you  are 
conscious  of  the  wall-paper  of  amber  and  blue  with  a  frieze 
above  it  measuring  off  yard  by  yard  a  sort  of  desert  scene,  a 
mountain,  a  lake,  three  palm  trees,  two  camels;  and  again; 
and  again;  until  by  the  corner  a  camel  and  a  palm  tree  are  cut 
out.  On  the  walls  there  are  pictures,  of  course.  Two  of  them 
convey  to  you  in  a  vague  and  water-coloury  sort  of  way  that  an 
English  countryside  is  pretty.  There  is  "Christ  among  the 
Doctors",  with  a  presentation  brass  plate  on  its  frame;  there  is 
"Simply  to  Thy  Cross  I  Cling."  And  there  is  an  illuminated 
testimonial  to  the  Vicar,  a  mark  of  affection  and  esteem  from  the 
flock  he  ministered  to  as  senior  curate. 

The  furniture  is  either  very  heavy,  stuffed,  sprung,  and 
tapestry-covered,  or  very  light.  There  are  quite  a  number  of 
small  tables  (occasional-tables  they  are  called),  which  should 
have  four  legs  but  have  only  three.  There  are  several  chairs,  too, 
on  which  it  would  be  unwise  to  sit  down. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  beneath  the  hanging,  pink-shaded, 
electric  chandelier,  is  a  mahogany  monument,  a  large  round 
table  of  the  "pedestal"  variety,  and  on  it  tower  to  a  climax  the 
vicarage  symbols  of  gentility  and  culture.  In  the  centre  of  this 
table,  beneath  a  glass  shade,  an  elaborate  reproduction  of  some 
sixteenth-century  Pieta  (a  little  High  Church,  it  is  thought;  but 
Art,  for  some  reason,  runs  that  way).  It  stands  on  a  Chinese 
silk  mat,  sent  home  by  some  exiled  uncle.  It  is  symmetrically 
surrounded  by  gift  books,  a  photograph  album,  a  tray  of  painted 
Indian  figures  (very  jolly!  another  gift  from  the  exiled  uncle), 
and  a  whale's  tooth.  The  wfwle  affair  is  draped  with  a  red  em- 
broidered cloth. 

The  window  of  the  room,  with  so  many  sorts  of  curtains  and 
blinds  to  it  that  one  would  think  the  Vicar  hatched  conspiracies 
here  by  night,  admits  but  a  blurring  light,  which  the  carpet 
(Brussels)  reflects,  toned  to  an  ugly  yellow. 

You  really  would  not  expect  such  a  thing  to  be  happening  in 
such  a  place,  but  this  carpet  is  at  the  moment  the  base  of  an  ap- 
parently mortal  struggle.     The  Vicar  is  undermost,  his  baldish 


ROCOCO  205 


head,  when  he  tries  to  raise  it,  falls  back  and  bumps.  Kneeling 
on  him,  throttling  his  collar,  is  a  hefty  young  man  conscientiously 
out  of  temper,  with  scarlet  face  glowing  against  carrotty  hair. 
His  name  is  Reginald  and  he  is  (one  regrets  to  add)  the 
Vicar's  nephew,  though  it  be  only  by  marriage.  The  Vicar's 
wife,  fragile  and  fifty,  is  making  pathetic  attempts  to  pull 
him  off. 

"Have  you  had  enough?"  asks  Reginald  and  grips  the  Vicar 
hard. 

"Oh,  Reginald  .  .  .  be  good,"  is  all  the  Vicar's  wife's 
appeal. 

Not  tioo  yards  off  a  minor  battle  rages.  Mrs.  Reginald,  com- 
ing up  to  reinforce,  was  intercepted  by  Miss  Underwood,  the 
Vicar's  sister,  on  the  same  errand.  The  elder  lady  now  has  the 
younger  pinned  by  the  elbows  and  she  emphasises  this  very 
handsome  control  of  the  situation  by  teeth-rattling  shakes. 

"Cat  .  .  .  cat  .  .  .  cat!"  gasps  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  is 
plump  and  flaxen  and  easily  disarranged. 

Miss  Underivood  only  shakes  her  again.  "I'll  teach  you 
manners,  miss." 

"Oh,  Reginald  .  .  .  do  drop  him,"  moans  poor  Mrs.  Un- 
derwood.    For  this  is  really  very  bad  for  the  Vicar. 

"Stick  a  pin  into  him,  Mary,"  advises  her  sister-in-law. 
Whereat  Mrs.  Reginald  yelps  in  her  iron  grasp, 

" Don  t  you  dare  .  .  .  it's  poisonous,"  and  then,  "Oh  .  .  . 
if  you  weren't  an  old  woman  I'd  have  boxed  your  ears." 

Three  violent  shakes.  "Would  you?  Would  you?  Would 
you?" 

"I  haven't  got  a  pin,  Carinthia,"  says  Mrs.  Underivood. 
She  has  conscientiously  searched. 

"Pull  his  hair,  then,"  commands  Carinthia. 

At  intervals,  like  a  signal  gun,  Reginald  repeats  his  query: 
"Have  you  had  enough?"  And  the  Vicar,  though  it  is  evident 
that  he  has,  still,  with  some  unsur rendering  school-days'  echo 
answering  in  his  mind,  will  only  gasp,  "  Most  undignified  .  .  . 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  .  .  .  your  host,  sir  .  .  . 
ashamed  of  you    .    .    .   let  me  up  at  once." 


206  ROCOCO 


Mrs.  Underwood  has  jailed  at  the  hair;  she  flaps  her  hands  in 
despair.     "It's  too  short,  Carinthia,"  she  moans. 

Mrs.  Reginald  begins  to  sob  pitifully.  It  is  very  painful  to 
be  tightly  held  by  the  elbows  from  behind.  So  Miss  Underwood, 
with  the  neatest  of  twists  and  pushes,  lodges  her  in  a  chair,  and 
thus  released  herself,  folds  her  arms  and  surveys  the  situation. 
"Box  my  ears,  would  you?"  is  her  postscript. 
mrs.  Reginald.  Well  .  .  .  you  boxed  father's. 
miss  underwood.     Where  is  your  wretched  father-in-law? 

[Her  hawklike  eye  surveys  the  room  for  this  unknown  in  vain. 
Reginald    {the   proper   interval   having   apparently   elapsed). 

Have  you  had  enough? 

[Dignified  he  cannot  look,   thus  outstretched.     The   Vicar, 

therefore,  assumes  a  mixed  expression  of  saintliness  and  ob- 
stinacy,   his    next    best    resource.     His    poor    wife    moans 

again.   .   .    . 
mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  please,  Reginald    .   .    .   the  floor's  so 

hard  for  him! 
Reginald  (a  little  anxious  to  have  done  with  it  himself) .   Have 

you  had  enough? 
the  vicar  (quite  supine).     Do  you  consider  this  conduct  be- 
coming a  gentleman? 
mrs.  underwood.     And   .   .    .   Simon !   ...   if  the  servants 

have  heard   .    .    .   they  must  have  heard.     What  will  they 

think? 

[No,  even  this  heart-breaking  appeal  falls  flat. 
Reginald.     Say  you've  had  enough  and  I'll  let  you  up. 
the  vicar  (reduced  to  casuistry).     It's  not  at  all  the  sort  of 

thing  I  ought  to  say. 
MRS.  underwood  (so  helpless).     Oh   .    .    .    I  think  you  might 

say  it,  Simon,  just  for  once. 
miss  underwood  (grim  with  the  pride  of  her  own  victory). 

Say  nothing  of  the  sort,  Simon! 

[  The  Vicar  has  a  burst  of  exasperation;  for,  after  all,  he  is  on 

the  floor  and  being  knelt  on. 
the  vicar.     Confound  it  all,  then,  Carinthia,  why  don't  you 

do  something? 


ROCOCO  207 


[Carinthia  casts  a  tactical  eye  over  Reginald.     The  Vicar 
adds  in  parenthesis   .    .    .    a  human  touch!   .    .    . 

the  vicar.  Don't  kneel  there,  you  young  fool,  you'll  break 
my  watch! 

miss  underwood.     Wait  till  I  get  my  breath. 

[But  this  prospect  raises  in  Mrs.  Underwood  a  perfect  dithy- 
ramb of  despair. 

mrs.  underwood.  Oh,  please,  Carinthia  .  .  .  No  .  .  . 
don't  start  again.  Such  a  scandal !  I  wonder  everything's 
not  broken.  (So  coaxingly  to  Reginald)  Shall  I  say  it  for 
him? 

mrs.  Reginald  (fat  little  bantam,  as  she  smooths  her  feathers 
in  the  armchair).     You  make  him  say  it,  Reggie. 
[But  now  the  servants  are  on  poor  Mrs.  Underwood's  brain. 
Almost  down  to  her  knees  she  goes. 

mrs.  underwood.  They'll  be  coming  up  to  see  what  the 
noise  is.     Oh   .    .    .   Simon! 

[It  does  strike  the  Vicar  that  this  would  occasion  considerable 
scandal  in  the  parish.  There  are  so  few  good  excuses  for  being 
found  lying  on  the  carpet,  your  nephew  kneeling  threateningly 
on  the  top  of  you.  So  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  it  and  enun- 
ciates with  musical  charm;  it  might  be  a  benediction.   .    .   .     i 

the  vicar.     I  have  had  enough. 

Reginald  (in  some  relief).     That's  all  right. 

[He  rises  from  the  prostrate  church  militant;  he  even  helps  it 
rise.  This  pleasant  family  party  then  look  at  each  othery 
and,  truth  to  tell,  they  are  all  a  little  ashamed. 

mrs.  underwood  (walking  round  the  re-erected  pillar  of  right- 
eousness).    Oh,  how  dusty  you  are! 

miss  underwood.  Yes!  (The  normal  self  uprising)  Room's 
not  been  swept  this  morning. 

[The  Vicar,  dusted,  feels  that  a  reign  of  moral  law  can  now 
be  resumed.     He  draws  himself  up  to  fully  five  foot  six. 

the  vicar.     Now,  sir,  you  will  please  apologise. 

Reginald  (looking  very  muscular).     I  shall  not. 

[The  Vicar  drops  the  subject.  Mrs.  Reginald  mutters  and 
crows  from  the  armchair. 


208  ROCOCO 


mrs.  Reginald.  Ha  .  .  .  who  began  it?  Black  and  blue 
I  am !  Miss  Underwood  can  apologise  .  .  .  your  precious 
sister  can  apologise. 

miss  underwood  (crushing  if  inconsequent).  You're  running 
to  fat,  Gladys.     Where's  my  embroidery? 

mrs.  underwood.  I  put  it  safe,  Carinthia.  (She  discloses 
it  and  then  begins  to  pat  and  smooth  the  dishevelled  room) 
Among  relations  too!  One  expects  to  quarrel  sometimes 
...  it  can't  be  helped.  But  not  fighting!  Oh,  I  never 
did    ...    I  feel  so  ashamed! 

miss  underwood  (Britannia-like) .     Nonsense,  Mary. 

mrs.  Reginald.     Nobody  touched  you,  Aunt  Mary. 

the  vicar  (after  his  eyes  have  wandered  vaguely  round). 
Where's  your  father,  Reginald? 

Reginald  (quite  uninterested.  He  is  straightening  his  own  tie 
and  collar).     I  don't  know. 

[In  the  little  silence  that  follows  there  comes  a  voice  from 
under  the  mahogany  monument.  It  is  a  voice  at  once  digni- 
fied and  pained,  and  the  property  of  Reginald's  father,  whose 
name  is  Mortimer  Uglow.    And  it  says   .   .   . 

the  voice.     I  am  here. 

mrs.  underwood  (ivho  may  be  forgiven  nerves).  Oh,  how 
uncanny ! 

Reginald  (still  at  his  tie).  Well,  you  can  come  out,  father, 
it's  quite  safe. 

the  voice  (most  unexpectedly).  I  shall  not.  (And  then  more 
unexpectedly  still)     You  can  all  leave  the  room. 

the  vicar  (wJw  is  generally  resentful).  Leave  the  room! 
whose  room  is  it,  mine  or  yours?  Come  out,  Mortimer, 
and  don't  be  a  fool. 

[But  there  is  only  silence.  Why  will  not  Mr.  Uglow  come  out? 
Must  he  be  ratted  for?  Then  Mrs.  Underwood  sees  why. 
She  points  to  an  object  on  the  floor. 

mrs.  underwood.     Simon ! 

the  vicar.     What  is  it? 

[Again,  and  this  time  as  if  to  indicate  some  mystery, 
Mrs.   Underwood  points.     The  Vicar  picks  up  the  object, 


ROCOCO  209 


some  dissection  of  the  fight  he  thinks,  and  waves  it 
mildly. 

the  vicar.  Well,  where  does  it  go?  I  wonder  everything 
in  the  room's  not  been  upset! 

mrs.  underwood.  No,  Simon,  it's  not  a  mat,  it's  his  .  .  . 
[She  concludes  with  an  undeniable  gesture,  even  a  smile.  The 
Vicar,  sniffing  a  little,  hands  over  the  trophy. 

Reginald  (as  he  views  it).     Oh,  of  course. 

mrs.  Reginald.     Reggie,  am  I  tidy  at  the  back? 

[lie  tidies  her  at  the  back  —  a  meticulous  matter  of  hooks  and 
eyes  and  oh,  his  fingers  are  so  big.  Mrs.  Underwood  has 
taken  a  Utile  hand-fainted  mirror  from  the  mantelpiece,  and 
this  and  the  thing  in  question  she  places  just  without  the 
screen  of  the  falling  tablecloth  much  as  a  devotee  might  place 
an  offering  at  a  shrine.  But  in  Miss  Underwood  dwells  no 
respect  for  persons. 

miss  underwood.  Now,  sir,  for  Heaven's  sake  put  on  your 
wig  and  come  out. 

[There  emerges  a  hand  that  trembles  with  wrath;  it  retrieves 
the  offerings;  there  follow  bumping s  into  the  tablecloth  as  of 
a  head  and  elbows. 

the  vicar.     I  must  go  and  brush  myself. 

mrs.  underwood.  Simon,  d'you  think  you  could  tell  the 
maids  that  something  fell  over  .  .  .  they  are  such  tat- 
tlers.    It  wouldn't  be  untrue.     [It  wouldn't. 

the  vicar.     I  should  scorn  to  do  so,  Mary.     If  they  ask  me, 
I  must  make  the  best  explanation  I  can. 
[The  Vicar  swims  out.     Mr.  Mortimer  Ugloiv,  his  wig  as- 
sumed and  hardly  awry  at  all,  emerges  from  beneath  the  table. 
He  is  a  vindictive-looking  little  man. 

mrs.  underwood.     You're  not  hurt,  Mortimer,  are  you? 
[Mr.  Uglow's  only  wound  is  in  the  dignity.     That  he  cures 
by  taking  the  situation  oratorically  in  hand. 

mr.  uglow.  If  we  are  to  continue  this  family  discussion 
and  if  Miss  Underwood,  whom  it  does  not  in  the  least 
concern,  has  not  the  decency  to  leave  the  room  and  if 
you,  Mary,  cannot  request  your   sister-in-law  to   leave 


210  ROCOCO 

it,  I  must  at  least  demand  that  she  does  not  speak  to 

me  again. 

[Whoever  else  might  be  impressed,  Miss  Underwood  is  not. 

She  does  not  even  glance  up  from  her  embroidery. 
miss  underwood.     A  good  thing  for  you  I  hadn't  my  thimble 

on  when  I  did  it. 
mrs.  underwood.     Carinthia,  I  don't  think  you  should  have 

boxed  Mortimer's  ears    .    .    .   you  know  him  so  slightly. 
miss  underwood.     He  called  me  a  Futile  Female.     I  con- 
sidered it  a  suitable  reply. 

[The  echo  of  that  epigram  brings  compensation  to  Mr.  Uglow. 

He  puffs  his  chest. 
mr.  uglow.     Your  wife  rallied  to  me,  Reginald.     I  am  much 

obliged  to  her   .    .    .   which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  you. 
Reginald.     Well,  you  can't  hit  a  woman. 
mr.  uglow  (bitingly).     And  she  knows  it. 
miss  underwood.     Pf! 

[The  sound  conveys  that  she  ivould  tackle  a  regiment  of  men 

with  her  umbrella:  and  she  would. 
Reginald  {apoplectic,  but  he  has  worked  down  to  the  waist). 

There's  a  hook  gone. 
mrs.  Reginald.     I  thought  so!     Lace  torn? 
Reginald.     It  doesn't  show  much.     But  I  tackled  Uncle 

Simon  the  minute  he  touched  Gladys   .    .    .   that  got  my 

blood  up  all  right.     Don't  you  worry.     We  won. 

[This  callously  sporting  summary  is  too  much  for  Mrs.  Un- 
derwood: she  dissolves. 
mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  that  such  a  thing  should  ever  have 

happened  in  our  house !   ...   in  my  drawing-room !  !  .  .  . 

real  blows!  !  !   .   .   . 
mrs.  Reginald.  Don't  cry,  Aunt  Mary  ...  it  wasn't  your 

fault. 

[The  Vicar  returns,  his  hair  and  his  countenance  smoother. 

He  adds  his  patting  consolations  to  his  poor  wife's  comfort. 
mrs.  underwood.     And  I  was  kicked  on  the  shin. 
mrs.  Reginald.     Say  you're  sorry,  Reggie. 
the  vicar.     My  dear  Mary   .    .    .   don't  cry. 


HOCOCO  211 


mrs.  underwood  (clasping  her  beloved's  arm).  Simon  did 
it  .  .  .  Reggie  was  throttling  him  black  ...  he  couldn't 
help  it. 

the  vicar.  I  suggest  that  we  show  a  more  or  less  Christian 
spirit  in  letting  bygones  be  bygones  and  endeavour  to  re- 
sume the  discussion  at  the  point  where  it  ceased  to  be  an 
amicable  one.  (His  wife,  her  clasp  on  his  coat,  through  her 
drying  tears  has  found  more  trouble)  Yes,  there  is  a  slight 
rent   .    .    .   never  mind. 

[The  family  party  now  settles  itself  into  what  may  have  been 
more  or  less  the  situations  from  which  they  were  roused  to 
physical  combat.     Mr.  Uglow  secures  a  central  place. 

mr.  uglow.  My  sister-in-law  Jane  had  no  right  to  bequeath 
the  Vase  ...  it  was  not  hers  to  bequeath. 
[That  is  the  gage  of  battle.  A  legacy!  What  English  family 
has  not  at  some  time  shattered  its  mutual  regard  upon  this 
iron  rock.  One  notices  now  that  all  these  good  folk  are  in 
deepest  mourning,  on  which  the  dust  of  combat  stands  up  the 
more  distinctly,  as  indeed  it  shoidd. 

mrs.  underwood.  Oh,  Mortimer,  think  if  you'd  been  able 
to  come  to  the  funeral  and  this  had  all  happened  then  .  .  . 
it  might  have  done! 

miss  underwood.  But  it  didn't,  Mary  .  .  .  control  your- 
self. 

mr.  uglow.  My  brother  George  wrote  to  me  on  his  death- 
bed .  .  .  {and  then  fiercely  to  the  Vicar,  as  if  this  con- 
cerned his  calling)  ...  on  his  death-bed,  sir.  I  have 
the  letter  here.    .    .    . 

the  vicar.     Yes,  we've  heard  it. 

Reginald.     And  you  sent  them  a  copy. 

[Mr.  Uglow's  hand  always  seems  to  tremble;  this  time  it  is 
with  excitement  as  he  has  pulled  the  letter  from  his  pocket-book. 

mr.  uglow.  Quiet,  Reginald!  Hear  it  again  and  pay  at- 
tention. (They  settle  to  a  strained  boredom)  "The  Rococo 
Vase  presented  to  me  by  the  Emperor  of  Germany" 
.  .  .  Now  there  he's  wrong.  (The  sound  of  his  oion  reading 
has  uplifted  him:  he  condescends  to  them)     They're  German 


212  ROCOCO 


Emperors,  not  Emperors  of  Germany.  But  George  was 
an  inaccurate  fellow.  Reggie  has  the  same  trick  .  .  . 
it's  in  the  family.     I  haven't  it. 

[He  is  returning  to  the  letter.  But  the  Vicar  interposes, 
lamblike,  ominous  though. 

the  vicar.  I  have  not  suggested  on  Mary's  behalf  ...  I 
wish  you  would  remember,  Mortimer,  that  the  position  I 
take  up  in  this  matter,  I  take  up  purely  on  my  wife's  behalf. 
What  have  I  to  gain? 

Reginald  (clodhopping) .  Well,  you're  her  husband,  aren't 
you?  She'll  leave  things  to  you.  And  she's  older  than 
you  are. 

the  vicar.  Reginald,  you  are  most  indelicate.  (And  then, 
really  thinking  it  is  true  .  .  .  )  I  have  forborne  to  de- 
mand an  apology  from  you.    .    .    . 

Reginald.     Because  you  wouldn't  get  it. 

mrs.  underwood  (genuinely  and  generously  accommodating). 
Oh,  I  don't  want  the  vase    ...    I  don't  want  anything! 

the  vicar  (he  is  gradually  mounting  the  pulpit).  Don't  think 
of  the  vase,  Mary.     Think  of  the  principle  involved. 

mrs.  underwood.  And  you  may  die  first,  Simon.  You're 
not  strong,  though  you  look  it  .  .  .  all  the  colds  you  get 
.    .    .   and  nothing's  ever  the  matter  with  me. 

mr.  uglow  (ignored  .  .  .  ignored!).  Mary,  how  much 
longer  am  I  to  wait  to  read  this  letter? 

the  vicar  (ominously,  ironically  lamblike  now).  Quite  so. 
Your  brother  is  waiting  patiently  .  .  .  and  politely. 
Come,  come;  a  Christian  and  a  businesslike  spirit! 
[Mr.  Uglow' s  very  breath  has  been  taken  to  resume  the  reading 
of  the  letter,  when  on  him  .  .  .  worse,  on  that  tender  top- 
knot of  his  .  .  .  he  finds  Miss  Underwood's  hawklike  eye. 
Its  look  passes  through  him,  piercing  Infinity  as  she  says  .  .  . 

miss  underwood.  Wby  not  a  skull-cap  ...  a  sanitary 
skull  cap? 

mr.  uglow  (with  a  minatory  though  fearful  gasp).  What's 
that? 

the  vicar.     Nothing,  Mortimer. 


ROCOCO  213 


keginald.     Some  people  look  for  trouble! 

miss  underwood  (addressing  the  Infinite  still).     And  those 

that  it  fits  can  wear  it. 
the  vicar  (a  little  fearful  himself.   He  is  terrified  of  his  sister, 

thafs  the  truth.     And  well  he  may  be).     Let's  have  the 

letter,  Mortimer. 
miss  underwood.     Or  at  least  a  little  gum    ...    a  little 

glue   ...    a  little  stickphast  for  decency's  sake. 

[She  swings  it  to  a  beautiful  rhythm.     No,  on  the  wlwle,  Mr. 

Uglow  will  not  join  issue. 
MR.  uglow.     I  trust  that  my  dignity  requires  no  vindication. 

Never  mind    ...    I  say  nothing.     (And  with  a  forgiving 

air  he  returns  at  last  to  the  letter)     "The  Rococo  Vase  pre- 
sented to   me  by  the  Emperor  of   Germany"    ...    or 

German  Emperor. 
the  vicar.     Agreed.     Don't   cry,   Mary.     Well,   here's   a 

clean  one. 

[Benevolently  he  hands  her  a  handkerchief. 
mr.  uglow.     "On  the  occasion  of  my  accompanying  the 

mission." 
miss  underwood.     Mission! 

[The  word  has  touched  a  spot. 
the  vicar.     Not  a  real  mission,  Carinthia. 
MR.  uglow.     A  perfectly  real  mission.     A  mission  from  the 

Chamber  of  Commerce  at    .    .    .    Don't  go  on  as  if  the 

world  were  made  up  of  low  church  parsons  and    .    .    .    and 

.    .    .   their  sisters! 

[As  a  convinced  secularist  behold  him  a  perfect  fighting  cock. 
Reginald  (bored,  but  oh,  so  bored!) .     Do  get  ahead,  father. 
MR.  uglow  (with  a  flourish).     "Mission  et  cetera."     Here 

we  are.     "My  dear  wife  must  have  the  enjoyment"   .   .   . 

(Again  he  condescends  to  them)     Why  he  called  her  his  dear 

wife  I  don't  know.     They  hated  each  other  like  poison. 

But   that   was   George   all   over   .    .    .   soft   .    .    .   never 

would  face  the  truth.     It's  a  family  trait.     You  show  signs 

of  it,  Mary. 
the  vicar  (soft  and  low).     He  was  on  his  death-bed. 


214  ROCOCO 


Reginald.     Get  on    .    .    .    father. 

mr.  uglow.  "My  wife"  .  .  .  She  wasn't  his  dear  wife. 
What's  the  good  of  pretending  it?  .  .  .  "must  have  the 
enjoyment  of  it  while  she  lives.  At  her  death  I  desire  it  to 
be  an  heirloom  for  the  family."  (And  he  makes  the  last 
sentence  tell,  every  word)     There  you  are ! 

the  vicar  {lamblike,  ominous,  ironic,  persistent).  You  sit 
looking  at  Mary.  His  sister  and  yours.  Is  she  a  member 
of  the  family  or  not? 

mr.  uglow  (cocksure).  Boys  before  girls  .  .  .  men  be- 
before  women.  Don't  argue  that  .  .  .  it's  the  law. 
Titles  and  heirlooms   ...    all  the  same  thing. 

mrs.  underwood  (worm-womanlike,  turning  ever  so  little). 
Mortimer,  it  isn't  as  if  we  weren't  giving  you  all  the 
family  things  .  .  .  the  miniature  and  the  bust  of  John 
Bright  and  grandmother's  china  and  the  big  Shake- 
speare  .    .    . 

mr.  uglow.     Giving  them,  Mary,  giving  them? 

the  vicar.  Surrendering  tbem  willingly,  Mortimer.  They 
have  ornamented  our  house  for  years. 

mrs.  Reginald.  It  isn't  as  if  you  hadn't  done  pretty  well 
out  of  Aunt  Jane  while  she  was  alive! 

the  vicar.  Oh,  delicacy,  Gladys!  And  some  regard  for 
the  truth! 

mrs.  Reginald  (no  nonsense  about  her).  No,  if  we're  talking 
business  let's  talk  business.  Her  fifty  pounds  a  year  more 
than  paid  you  for  keeping  her,  didn't  it?  Did  it  or 
didn't  it? 

Reginald  (gloomily).  She  never  ate  anything  that  I  could 
see. 

the  vicar.  She  had  a  delicate  appetite.  It  needed  teas- 
ing ...  I  mean  coaxing.  Oh,  dear,  this  is  most  un- 
pleasant ! 

Reginald.  Fifty  pound  a  year  is  nearly  a  pound  a  week, 
you  know. 

the  vicar.  What  about  her  clothes  .  .  .  what  about  her 
little  holidays    .    .    .    what  about  the  doctor    .    .    .    what 


ROCOCO  215 


about  her  temper  to  the  last?     {He  summons  the  classics 
to  clear  the  sordid  air)     Oh:    De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum! 

mrs.  underwood.  She  was  a  great  trouble  with  her  meals, 
Reginald. 

MR.  uglow  {letting  rip).  She  was  a  horrible  woman.  I  dis- 
liked her  more  than  any  woman  I've  ever  met.  She 
brought  George  to  bankruptcy.  When  he  was  trying  to 
arrange  with  his  creditors  and  she  came  into  the  room,  her 
face  would  sour  them    ...    I  tell  you,  sour  them. 

mrs.  Reginald  {she  sums  it  up).  Well,  Uncle  Simon's  a 
clergyman  and  can  put  up  with  unpleasant  people.  It 
suited  them  well  enough  to  have  her.  You  had  the  room, 
Aunt  Mary,  you  can't  deny  that.  And  anyway  she's 
dead  now  .  .  .  poor  Aunt  Jane!  {She  throws  this  con- 
ventional verbal  bone  to  Cerberus)  And  what  with  the 
things  she  has  left  you  .  .  .  !  What's  to  be  done  with 
her  clothes? 

[Gladys  and  Mrs.  Underwood  suddenly  face  each  other  like 
two  ladylike  ghouls. 

mrs.  underwood.     Well,  you  remember  the  mauve  silk  .  .  , 

the  vicar.  Mary,  pray  allow  me.  {Somehow  his  delicacy 
is  shocked)     The  Poor. 

mrs.  Reginald  {in  violent  protest).  Not  the  mauve  silk! 
Nor  her  black  lace  shawl ! 

miss  underwood  {shooting  it  out).     They  will  make  soup. 
[It  makes  Mr.  Uglow  jump,  physically  and  mentally  too. 

mr.  uglow.     What! 

miss  underwood.     The  proceeds  of  their  sale  will  make  much 
needed  soup    .    .    .    and  blankets.     {Again  her  gaze  trans- 
fixes that  wig  and  she  addresses  Eternity)     No  brain  under 
it!    .    .    .    No  wonder  it's  loose!     No  brain. 
[31  r.  Uglow  just  manages  to  ignore  it. 

Reginald.  Where  is  the  beastly  vase?  I  don't  know  that 
I  want  to  inherit  it. 

MR.  uglow.  Yes,  may  I  ask  for  the  second  or  third  time 
to-day?    .    .    . 

Miss  underwood.     The  third. 


216  ROCOCO 


mr.  ttglow  (he  screws  a  baleful  glance  at  her).  May  I  ask 
for  the  second  or  third  time    .    .    . 

Reginald.     It  is  the  third  time,  father. 

mr.  uglow  (his  own  son,  too!).  Reginald,  you  have  no  tact. 
May  I  ask  why  the  vase  is  not  to  be  seen? 

miss  underwood  (sharply).     It's  put  away. 

mrs.  Reginald  (as  sharp  as  she.  Never  any  nonsense  about 
Gladys).     Why? 

mr.  uglow.     Gladys    .    .    .    ignore  that,  please,  Mary? 

mrs.  underwood.     Yes,  Mortimer. 

mr.  uglow.     It  has  been  chipped. 

the  vicar.     It  has  not  been  chipped. 

mr.  uglow.     If  it  has  been  chipped    .    .    . 

the  vicar.     I  say  it  has  not  been  chipped. 

mr.  uglow.  If  it  had  been  chipped,  sir  ...  I  should  have 
held  you  responsible!     Produce  it. 

[He  is  indeed  very  much  of  a  man.  A  little  more  and  he'll 
slap  his  chest.  But  the  Vicar,  lamblike,  etc.  .  .  .  we  can 
now  add  dangerous.    .    .    . 

the  vicar.     Oh,  no,  we  must  not  be  ordered  to  produce  it. 

MR.  uglow  (trumpet-toned).     Produce  it,  Simon. 

the  vicar.     Neither  must  we  be  shouted  at. 

miss  underwood.  ...  or  bawled  at.  Bald  at!  Ha,  ha! 
[And  she  taps  her  grey-haired  parting  with  a  thimbled  finger 
to  emphasise  the  pun.  Mr.  Uglow  rises,  too  intent  on  his 
next  impressive  stroke  even  to  notice  it,  or  seem  to. 

mr.  uglow.     Simon,  if  you  do  not  instantly  produce  the  vase 
I  shall  refuse  to  treat  this  any  longer  in  a  friendly  way.    I 
shall  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  my  solicitors. 
[This,  in  any  family  —  is  it  not  the  final  threat?     Mrs.  Un- 
derwood is  genuinely  shocked. 

mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  Simon! 

the  vicar.     As  a  matter  of  principle,  Mary.    .    .    . 

Reginald  (impartially).     What  rot! 

mrs.  underwood.  It  was  put  away,  I  think,  so  that  the 
sight  of  it  might  not  rouse  discussion  .  .  .  wasn't  it, 
Simon? 


ROCOCO  217 


Reginald.     Well,  we've  had  the  discussion.     Now  get  it  out. 
the  vicar  (lamblike   .    .    .    etc.;  add  obstinate  now).     It  is  my 

principle  not  to  submit  to  dictation.     If  I  were  asked 

politely  to  produce  it.    .    .    . 
Reginald.     Ask  him  politely,  father. 
mr.  uglow  (why  shouldn't  he  have  principles,  too?).      I  don't 

think  I  can.     To  ask  politely  might  be  an  admission  of 

some  right  of  his  to  detain  the  property.     This  matter  will 

go  further.     I  shall  commit  myself  in  nothing  without 

legal  advice. 
mrs.  Reginald.     You  get  it  out,  Aunt  Mary. 
mrs.  underwood  (almost  thankful  to  be  helpless  in  the  matter). 

I  can't.     I  don't  know  where  it  is. 
mr.  uglow  (all  the  instinct  for  Law  in  him  blazing).     You 

don't    .    .    .    !     This  is  important.     He   has   no  right  to 

keep  it  from  you,  Mary.     I  venture  to  think    .    .    . 
the  vicar.     Husband  and  wife  are  one,  Mortimer. 
MR.  uglow.     Not  in  Law.     Don't  you  cram  your  religion 

down  my  throat.     Not  in  Law  any  longer.     We've  im- 
proved all  that.     The  married  woman's  property  act!     I 

venture  to  think.    .    .    . 

[Miss  Underwood  has  disappeared.     Her  comment  is  to  slam 

the  door. 
mrs.  underwood.     I  think  perhaps  Carinthia  has  gone  for 

it,  Mortimer. 
mr.  uglow  (the  case  given  him,  he  asks  for  costs,  as  it  were). 

Then    I    object.    ...    I    object    most   strongly    to    this 

woman  knowing  the  whereabouts  of  a  vase  which  you, 

Mary.  .  .  . 
the  vicar  (a  little  of  the  mere  layman  peeping  now) .  Mortimer, 

do  not  refer  to  my  sister  as  "this  woman." 
mr.  uglow.     Then  treat  my  sister  with  the  respect  that  is 

due  to  her,  Simon. 

[They  are  face  to  face. 
the  vicar.     I  hope  I  do,  Mortimer. 
mr.  uglow.     And  will  you  request  Miss  Underwood  not  to 

return  to  this  room  with  or  without  the  vase? 


218  ROCOCO 


the  vicar.     Why  should  I? 

MR.  uglow.  What  has  she  to  do  with  a  family  matter  of 
mine?  I  make  no  comment,  Mary,  upon  the  way  you 
allow  yourself  to  be  ousted  from  authority  in  your  own 
house.  It  is  not  my  place  to  comment  upon  it  and  I  make 
none.  I  make  no  reference  to  the  insults  .  .  .  the  un- 
womanly insults  that  have  been  hurled  at  me  by  this 
Futile  Female.    .    .    . 

Reginald  (a  remembered  schoolmaster  joke.  He  feels  not  un- 
like one  as  he  watches  his  two  elders  squared  to  each  other). 
Apt  alliteration's  artful  aid    .    .    .   what? 

mr.  uglow.     Don't  interrupt. 

mrs.  Reginald.     You're  getting  excited  again,  father. 

MR.  uglow.     I  am  not. 

mrs.  Reginald.     Father! 

[There  is  one  sure  way  to  touch  Mr.  Uglow.     She  takes  it. 
She  points  to  his  wig. 

mr.    uglow.     What?     Well  .   .   .  where's    a    glass   .    .    . 
where's  a  glass? 
[He  goes  to  the  mantelpiece  mirror.    His  sister  follows  him. 

MRS.  underwood.  We  talked  it  over  this  morning,  Mor- 
timer, and  we  agreed  that  I  am  of  a  yielding  disposition 
and  I  said  I  should  feel  much  safer  if  I  did  not  even  know 
where  it  was  while  you  were  in  the  house. 

mr.  uglow  (with  every  appropriate  bitterness).  And  I  your 
loving  brother! 

the  vicar  (not  to  be  outdone  by  Reginald  in  quotations) .  A 
little  more  than  kin  and  less  than  kind. 

MR.  uglow  (his  wig  is  straight).     How  dare  you,  Simon?    A 
little  more  than  ten  minutes  ago  I  was  struck    .    .    .  here 
in  your  house.     How  dare  you  quote  poetry  at  me? 
[The  Vicar  feels  he  must  pronounce  on  this. 

the  vicar.  I  regret  that  Carinthia  has  a  masterful  nature. 
She  is  apt  to  take  the  law  into  her  own  hands.  And  I 
fear  there  is  something  about  you,  Mortimer,  that  invites 
violence.  I  can  usually  tell  when  she  is  going  to  be  unruly; 
there's  a  peculiar  twitching  of  her  hands.     If  you  had  not 


ROCOCO  219 


been  aggravating  us  all  with  your  so-called  arguments, 
I  should  have  noticed  it  in  time  and  .  .  .  taken 
steps. 

MRS.  underwood.  We're  really  very  sorry,  Mortimer.  We 
can  always  .  .  .  take  steps.  But  .  .  .  dear  me !  .  .  . 
I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life.  You  all  seemed  to  go 
mad  at  once.  It  makes  me  hot  now  to  think  of  it. 
[The  truth  about  Carinthia  is  that  she  is  sometimes  thought  to 
be  a  little  off  her  head.     It's  a  form  of  genius. 

the  vicar.  I  shall  have  a  headache  to-morrow  .  .  .  my 
sermon  day. 

[Mr.  Uglow  now  begins  to  gloiv  with  a  sense  of  coming  victory. 
And  he's  not  bad-natured,  give  him  what  he  wants. 

mr.  uglow.  Oh,  no,  you  won't.  More  frightened  than 
hurt!  These  things  will  happen  .  .  .  the  normal  gross- 
feeding  man  sees  red,  you  know,  sees  red.  Reggie  as  a 
small  boy   .    .    .    quite  uncontrollable! 

Reginald.     Well,  I  like  that !     You  howled  out  for  help. 

the  vicar  (lamblike  and  only  lamblike).  I  am  willing  to  ob- 
literate the  memory. 

mrs.  Reginald.  I'm  sure  I'm  black  and  blue  .  .  .  and 
more  torn  than  I  can  see. 

mr.  uglow.  But  what  can  you  do  when  a  woman  forgets 
herself?  I  simply  stepped  aside  ...  I  happen  to  value 
my  dignity. 

[The  door  opens.  Miss  Underwood  with  the  vase.  She  de- 
posits it  on  the  mahogany  table.  It  is  two  feet  in  height.  It 
is  lavishly  blotched  with  gold  and  white  and  red.  It  has  curves 
and  crinkles.     Its  handles  are  bossy.     My  God,  it  is  a  Vase! 

miss  underwood.     There  it  is. 

mr.  uglow  (with  a  victor's  dignity).  Thank  you,  Miss  Un- 
derwood. (He  puts  up  gold-rimmed  glasses)  Ah  .  .  . 
pure  Rococo! 

Reginald.     The  Vi-Cocoa  vase! 

mr.  uglow.     That's  not  funny,  Reginald. 

Reginald.     Well    ...    I  think  it  is. 

[The  trophy  before  him,  Mr.  Uglow  mellows. 


220  ROCOCO 


MR.  uglow.     Mary,  you've  often  heard  George  tell  us.    The 

Emperor    welcoming     'em    .    .    .   fine    old    fellow    .    .    . 

speech   in   German   .    .    .    none   of   them   understood   it. 

Then  at  the  end    .    .    .    Gentlemen,  I  raise  my  glass.  Hock 

.    .    .   hock   .    .    .   hock! 
Reginald  (who  knows  a  German  accent  when  he  hears  it).    A 

little  more  spit  in  it. 
mr.  uglow.     Reginald,  you're  very  vulgar. 
Reginald.     Is  that  Potsdam? 

[The  monstrosity  has  coloured  views  on  it,  one  back,  one 

front. 
mr.  uglow.     Yes   .    .    .   home  of  Friedrich  der  Grosse!     A 

great  nation.     We  can  learn  a  lot  from  'em ! 

[This  was  before  the  war.     What  he  says  of  them  now  is  un- 
printable. 
Reginald.     Yes.     I  suppose  its'  a  jolly  handsome  piece  of 

goods.     Cost  a  lot. 
mr.  uglow.     Royal  factory    .    .    .   built  to  imitate  Sevres! 

[Apparently  he  would  contemplate  it  for  hours.     But  the 

Vicar   .    .    .   Lamblike,  etc.;  add  insinuating  now. 
the  vicar.     Well,  Mortimer,  here  is  the  vase.     Now  where 

are  we? 
mrs.  Reginald  (really  protesting  for  the  first  time).    Oh  .   .   . 

are  we  going  to  begin  all  over  again!     Why  don't  you  sell 

it  and  share  up? 
mrs.  underwood.     Gladys,  I  don't  think  that  would  be  quite 

nice. 
mrs.  Reginald.     I  can't  see  why  not. 
mr.  uglow.     Sell  an  heirloom    ...    it  can't  be  done. 
Reginald.     Oh,  yes,  it  can.     You  and  I  together    .    .    .   cut 

off  the  entail   .    .    .    that's  what  it's  called.     It'd  fetch 

twenty  pounds  at  Christie's. 
mr.  uglow  (the  sight  of  it  has  exalted  him  beyond  reason). 
More   .    .   .   more!     First  class  rococo.     I  shouldn't  dream 

of  it. 

[Miss  Underwood  has  resumed  her  embroidery.     She  pulls  a 

determined  needle  as  she  says.    .    .    . 


ROCOCO  221 


miss  underwood.  I  think  Mary  would  have  a  share  in  the 
proceeds,  wouldn't  she? 

MR.  uglow.     I  think  not. 

the  vicar.     Why  not,  Mortimer? 

MR.  uglow  (with  fine  detachment).  Well,  it's  a  point  of  law. 
I'm  not  quite  sure  .  .  .  but  let's  consider  it  in  Equity. 
(Not  that  he  knows  what  on  earth  he  means!)  If  I  died  .  .  . 
and  Reginald  died  childless  and  Mary  survived  us  .  .  . 
and  it  came  to  her?  Then  there  would  be  our  cousins  the 
Bamfords  as  next  inheritors.  Could  she  by  arrangement 
with  them  sell  and   .    .    .    ? 

mrs.  underwood.  I  shouldn't  like  to  sell  it.  It  would 
seem  like  a  slight  on  George  .  .  .  because  he  went 
bankrupt  perhaps.  And  Jane  always  had  it  in  her 
bedroom. 

Miss,  underwood  (thimbling  the  determined  needle  through). 
Most  unsuitable  for  a  bedroom. 

mrs.  underwood  (anxious  to  please).  Didn't  you  suggest, 
Simon,  that  I  might  undertake  not  to  leave  it  out  of  the 
family? 

the  vicar  (covering  a  weak  spot).  In  private  conversation 
with  you,  Mary   .    .   . 

mr.  uglow  (most  high  and  mighty,  oh  most!).  I  don't  accept 
the  suggestion.     I  don't  accept  it  at  all. 

the  vicar  (and  noiv  taking  the  legal  line  in  his  turn).  Let  me 
point  out  to  you,  Mortimer,  that  there  is  nothing  to  pre- 
vent Mary's  selling  the  vase  for  her  own  exclusive  benefit. 

MR.  uglow  (his  guard  down).     Simon! 

the  vicar  (satisfied  to  have  touched  him).  Once  again,  I 
merely  insist  upon  a  point  of  principle. 

MR.  uglow  (but  now  flourishing  his  verbal  sioord)  .  And  I 
insist  ...  let  everybody  understand  it  ...  I  insist 
that  all  thought  of  selling  an  heirloom  is  given  up!  Regi- 
nald .  .  .  Gladys,  you  are  letting  me  be  exceedingly 
upset. 

Reginald.  Well  .  .  .  shall  I  walk  off  with  it?  They 
couldn't  stop  me. 


222  ROCOCO 


[He  lifts  it  up;  and  this  simplest  of  solutions  strikes  them  all 
stupent;  except  Miss  Underwood,  who  glances  under  her 
bushy  eyebrows. 

miss  underwood.     You'll  drop  it  if  you're  not  careful. 

MRS.  underwood.  Oh,  Reggie,  you  couldn't  carry  that  to 
the  station    .    .    .    everyone  would  stare  at  you. 

the  vicar.  I  hope  you  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  an  un- 
principled act. 

mrs.  Reginald.  I  won't  have  it  at  home,  Reg,  so  I  tell  you. 
One  of  the  servants  'd  be  sure  to  ...  !  (She  sighs  des- 
perately)    Why  not  sell  the  thing? 

mr.  uglow.     Gladys,  be  silent. 

Reginald  (as  he  pids  the  vase  down,  a  little  nearer  the  edge  of 
the  table).     It  is  a  weight. 

[So  they  have  argued  high  and  argued  low  and  also  argued 
round  about  it;  they  have  argued  in  a  full  circle.  And  now 
there  is  a  deadly  calm.  Mr.  Uglow  breaks  it;  his  voice 
trembles  a  little  as  does  his  hand  with  its  signet  ring  rattling 
on  the  table. 

mr.  uglow.  Then  we  are  just  where  we  started  half  an  hour 
ago    .    .    .    are  we,  Simon? 

the  vicar  (lamblike  in  excelsis).     Precisely,  Mortimer. 

mr.  uglow.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  very  sorry.  (He  gazes  at 
them  with  cool  ferocity)  Now  let  us  all  keep  our 
tempers. 

the  vicar.     I  hope  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to  lose  mine. 

mr.  uglow.     Nor  I  mine. 

[He  seems  not  to  move  a  muscle,  but  in  some  mysterious  way 
his  wig  shifts:  a  sure  sign. 

mrs.  underwood.  Oh,  Mortimer,  you're  going  to  get  ex- 
cited. 

mr.  uglow.     I  think  not,  Mary.     I  trust  not. 

Reginald  (proffering  real  temptation).  Father  .  .  .  come 
away  and  wriie  a  letter  about  it. 

mr.  uglow  (as  his  wrath  swells) .  If  I  write  a  letter  ...  if 
my  solicitors  have  to  write  a  letter  .  .  .  there  are 
people  here  who  will  regret  this  day. 


ROCOCO  223 


mrs.  underwood  (trembling  at  the  coming  storm).     Simon, 

I'd  much  sooner  he  took  it   ...   I'd  much  rather  he  took 

everything  Jane  left  me. 
MR.  uglow.     Jane  did  not  leave  it  to  you,  Mary. 
mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  Mortimer,  she  did  try  to  leave  it  to 

me. 
MR.  uglow  (running  up  the  scale  of  indignation).     She  may 

have  tried    .    .    .   but  she  did  not  succeed    .    .    .   because 

she  could  not    .    .    .    because  she  had  no  right  to  do  so. 

(And  reaching  the  summit)     I  am  not  in  the  least  excited. 

[Suddenly  Miss  Underwood  takes  a  shrewd  hand  in  the  game. 
miss  underwood.     Have  you  been  to  your  lawyer? 
mr.  uglow  (swivelling  round).     What's  that? 
miss  uglow.     Have  you  asked  your  lawyer? 

[He  has  not. 
mr.  uglow.     Gladys,  I  will  not  answer  her.     I  refuse  to 

answer  the    .    .    .   the    .    .    .   the  female. 

[But  he  has  funked  the  "futile." 
mrs.  Reginald  (soothing  him).     All  right,  father. 
miss  underwood.     He  hasn't  because  he  knows  what  his 

lawyer  would  say.     Rot's  what  his  lawyer  would  say ! 
mr.  uglow  (calling  on  the  gods  to  protect  this  woman  from  him). 

Heaven  knows  I  wish  to  discuss  this  calmly! 
Reginald.     Aunt  Mary,  might  I  smoke? 
miss  underwood.     Not  in  the  drawing-room. 
mrs.    underwood.     No   .    .    .   not    in    the    drawing-room, 

please,  Reginald. 
mr.  uglow.     You're  not  to  go  away,  Reginald. 
Reginald.     Oh,  well   .    .    .   hurry  up. 

[Mr.  Uglow  looks  at  the  Vicar.   The  Vicar  is  actually  smiling. 

Can  this  mean  defeat  for  the  house  of  Uglow?     Never. 
mr.  uglow.     Do  I  understand  that  on  your  wife's  behalf 

you  entirely  refuse  to  own  the  validity  of  my  brother 

George's  letter   .    .    .    where  is  it?   .    .    .   I  read  you  the 

passage  written  on  his  death-bed. 
the  vicar  (measured  and  confident.    Victory  gleams  for  him 

now).     Why  did  he  not  mention  the  vase  in  his  will? 


224  ROCOCO 


mr.  uglow.     There  were  a  great  many  things  he  did  not 

mention  in  his  will. 
the  vicar.     Was  his  widow  aware  of  the  letter? 
mr.  uglow.     You  know  she  was. 
the  vicar.     Why  did  she  not  carry  out  what  you  think  to 

have  been  her  husband's  intention? 
mr.  uglow.     Because  she  was  a  beast  of  a  woman. 

[Mr.  Uglow  is  getting  the  worst  of  it,  his  temper  is  slipping. 
mrs.    underwood.     Mortimer,    what    language    about   the 

newly  dead! 
the  vicar.     An  heirloom  in  the  family? 
mr.  uglow.     Quite  so. 
the  vicar.     On  what  grounds  do  you  maintain  that  George's 

intentions  are  not  carried  out  when  it  is  left  to  my  wife? 

[And  indeed,  "Mr.  Uglow  is  against  the  ropes  ",  so  to  speak. 
miss  underwood.     The  man  hasn't  a  wig  to  stand  on.   .   .   . 

I  mean  a  leg. 
MR.  uglow  (pale  with  fury,  hoarse  with  it,  even  pathetic  in  it) . 

Don't  you  speak  to  me    ...    I  request  you  not  to  speak 

to  me. 

[Reginald  and  Gladys  quite  seriously  think  this  is  bad  for 

him. 
Reginald.     Look  here,  father,  Aunt  Mary  will  undertake  not 

to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family.     Leave  it  at  that. 
mrs.  Reginald.     We  don't  want  the  thing,  father   .   .    .   the 

drawing-room's  full  already. 
mr.  uglow  (the  pathos  in  him  growing;  he  might  flood  the  best 

Brussels  with  tears  at  any  moment).      It's   not  the  vase. 

It's  no  longer  the  vase.     It's  the  principle. 
mrs.    underwood.     Oh,    don't,    Mortimer   .    .    .   don't   be 

like  Simon.     That's  why  I  mustn't  give  in.     It'll  make  it 

much  more  difficult  if  you  start  thinking  of  it  like  that. 
miss  underwood  (pulling  and  pushing  that  embroidery  needle 

more  grimly  than  ever).     It's  a  principle  in  our  family  not 

to  be  bullied. 
mrs.  Reginald  (in  almost  a  vulgar  tone,  really).     If  she'd  go 

and  mind  her  own  family's  business! 


ROCOCO  225 


[The  vicar  knows  that  he  has  his  Uglows  on  the  run.     Suavely 

he  presses  the  advantage. 
the  vicar.     I  am  sorry  to  repeat  myself,  Mortimer,  but  the 

vase  was  left  to  Jane  absolutely.     It  has  been  specifically 

left  to  Mary.     She  is  under  no  obligation  to  keep  it  in  the 

family. 
mr.  uglow  (control  breaking).     You'll  get  it,  will  you    .    .    . 

you  and  your  precious  female  sister? 
the  vicar  (quieter  and  quieter;  that  superior  quietude).     Oh, 

this  is  so  unpleasant. 
mr.  uglow  (control  broken).     Never!     Never!  !   .   .    .   not  if 

I  beggar  myself  in  law-suits. 
miss  underwood  (a  sudden  and  vicious  jab).     Who  wants  the 

hideous  thing? 
mr.  uglow  (broken,  all  of  him.     In  sheer  hysterics.     Tears 

starting  from  his  eyes) .     Hideous!     You  hear  her?     They'd 

sell  it  for  what'd  it  would  fetch.     My  brother  George's 

rococo  vase!     An  objet  d'art  et  vertu   ...   an  heirloom 

...   a  family  record  of  public  service!     Have  you  no 

feelings,  Mary? 
mrs.  underwood  (dissolved).     Oh,  I'm  very  unhappy. 

[Again  are  Mr.  Uglow  and  the  Vicar  breast  to  breast. 
the  vicar.     Don't  make  your  sister  cry,  sir. 
mr.  uglow.     Make  your  sister  hold  her  tongue,  sir.     She  has 

no  right  in  this  discussion  at  all.     Am  I  to  be  provoked  and 

badgered  by  a  Futile  Female? 

[The  Vicar  and  Mr.  Ugloio  are  intent  on  each  other,  the  others 

are  intent  on  them.     No  one  notices  that  Miss  Underwood' s 

embroidery  is  very  decidedly  laid  down  and  that  her  fingers 

begin  to  twitch. 
the  vicar.     How  dare  you  suppose,  Mortimer,  that  Mary 

and  I  would  not  respect  the  wishes  of  the  dead? 
mr.  uglow.     It's  nothing  to  do  with  you,  either. 

[Miss  Underwood  has  risen  from  her  chair.     This  Gladys 

does  notice. 
mrs.  Reginald.    I  say   .   .   .  Uncle  Simon. 
the  vicar.     What  is  it? 


226  ROCOCO 


Reginald.     Look  here,  Uncle  Simon,  let  Aunt  Mary  write  a 

letter   undertaking.    .    .    .   There's   no   need   for   all   this 

row.    .   . 
mrs.  underwood.     I  will!     I'll  undertake  anything! 
the  vicar  (the  Church  on  its  militant  dignity  now).     Keep 

calm,  Mary.     I  am  being  much  provoked,  too.     Keep 

calm. 
MR.  uglow  (stamping  it  out).     He  won't  let  her   ...   he 

and  his  sister    ...    he  won't  give  way  in  anything.     Why 

should  I  be  reasonable? 
Reginald.     If  she  will  undertake  it,  will  you   .    .    .    ? 
mrs.  Reginald.     Oh,  Aunt  Mary,  stop  her! 

[In  the  precisest  manner  possible,  judging  her  distance  with 

care,  aiming  well  and  true,  Miss   Underwood  has  for  the 

second  time  to-day,  soundly  boxed  Mr.  Uglow' 's  ear.  He  yells. 
mr.  uglow.  I  say   .    .    .    I'm  hurt. 
Reginald.     Look  here  now   .    .    .   not  again! 
the  vicar   (he  gets  flustered.     No  ivonder).     Carinthia!     I 

should  have  taken  steps!     It  is  almost  excusable. 
MR.  uglow.     I'm  seriously  hurt. 

mrs.  Reginald.     You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
miss  underwood.     Did  you  feel  the  thimble? 
mrs.  underwood.     Oh,  Carinthia,  this  is  dreadful! 
mr.  uglow.     I  wish  to  preserve  my  dignity. 

[He  backs  out  of  her  reach  that  he  may  the  better  do  so. 
miss  underwood.     Your  wig's  crooked. 
mrs.  Reginald  (rousing:  though  her  well-pinched  arms  have 

lively  recollections  of  half  an  hour  ago).     Don't  you  insult 

my  father. 
miss  underwood.     Shall  .1  put  it  straight?     It'll  be    off 

again. 

[She   advances,   her  eyes  gleaming.     To  do   .   .   .  Heaven 

knows  ivhat! 
mr.  uglow  (still  backing).     Go  away. 
Reginald  (who  really  doesn't  fancy  tackling  the  lady  either). 

Why  don't  you  keep  her  in  hand? 
mr.  uglow  (backed  as  far  as  he  can,  and  in  terror).     Simon, 


ROCOCO  227 


you're  a  cad  and  your  sister's  u  mad  end.  Take  her  away. 
[But  this  the  Vicar  will  not  endure.  He  has  been  called  a  cad, 
and  that  no  English  gentleman  ivill  stand,  and  a  clergyman 
is  a  gentleman,  sir.  In  ringing  tones  and  with  his  finest 
gesture  you  hear  him.  "Get  out  of  my  house!"  Mr.  Uglow 
doubtless  could  reply  more  fittingly  were  it  not  that  Miss  Un- 
derwood still  approaches.  He  is  feebly  forcible  merely. 
" Dont  you  order  me  about,"  he  quavers.  What  is  he  but  a 
fascinated  rabbit  before  the  terrible  woman?  The  gentlemanly 
Vicar  advances  —  "Get  out  before  I  put  you  out,"  he  vocifer- 
ates—  Englishman  to  the  backbone.  But  that  is  Reginald's 
waited-for  excuse.  "Oh,  no,  you  dont,"  he  says  and  bears 
down  on  the  Vicar.  Mrs.  Underwood  yelps  in  soft  but  agon- 
ized apprehension:  "Oh,  Simon,  be  careful."  Mr.  Uglow 
has  his  hands  up,  not  indeed  in  token  of  surrender,  —  though 
surrender  to  the  virago  poised  at  him  he  would,  —  but  to  shield 
his  precious  wig. 

"Mind  my  head,  do,"  he  yells;  he  ivill  have  it  that  it  is  his 
head.  "Come  aivay  from  my  father,"  calls  out  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, stoutly  clasping  Miss  Underwood  from  behind  round 
that  iron-corseted  waist.  Miss  Underwood  swivels  round. 
"Don't  you  touch  me,  Miss,"  she  snaps.  But  Gladys  has 
weight  and  the  two  are  toppling  groundward  while  Reginald, 
one  hand  on  the  Vicar,  one  grabbing  at  Miss  Underwood  to 
protect  his  wife  ("Stop  it,  do!"  he  shouts),  is  outbalanced. 
And  the  Vicar  making  still  determinedly  for  Mr.  Uglow,  and 
Mr.  Uglow,  his  wig  securer,  preparing  to  defy  the  Vicar,  the 
melee  is  joined  once  more.  Only  Mrs.  Underwood  is  so  far 
safe. 

The  fighters  breathe  hard  and  sway.  They  sivay  against  the 
great  mahogany  table.  The  Rococo  Vase  totters;  it  falls;  it 
is  smashed  to  pieces.  By  a  supreme  effort  the  immediate 
authors  of  its  destruction  —  linked  together  —  contrive  not  to  sit 
down  among  them.  Mrs.  Underwood  is  heard  to  breathe, 
"Oh   .    .    .    Thank  goodness " 


JAMES  AND  JOHN 

GILBERT  CANNAN 

Gilbert  Cannan  was  born  in  1884.  He  received  his  early 
education  in  Manchester.  He  later  attended  King's  College, 
Cambridge,  and  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1908.  He  evidently 
practised  very  little  or  not  at  all,  for  the  next  year  he  became 
dramatic  critic  on  The  Star. 

Cannan's  most  significant  work  so  far  is  found  not  in  his 
plays,  but  in  his  novels.  The  plays  are  to  be  judged  as  ex- 
periments rather  than  the  complete  expression  of  the  author's 
dramatic  intention.  In  a  letter  to  the  editor,  written  not 
long  ago,  he  declares:  "I  must  correct  your  impression  that 
I  was  once  interested  in  the  drama.  I  think  I  have  never 
really  been  interested  in  anything  else,  all  my  researches, 
however  remote  they  may  appear,  having  been  made  to  that 
end.  I  have  lately  resumed  dramatic  criticism  for  the  Lon- 
don Nation  and  before  very  long  shall  discard  novels  for 
plays." 

Cannan's  small  plays  display  a  variety  of  technique  and 
material  indicating  uncertainty  on  his  part  as  to  the  direction 
his  future  dramatic  activities  will  take.  However,  he  ap- 
pears to  consider  his  career  as  novelist  at  an  end,  as  he 
recently  declared  that  his  essays  in  novel  form  were  merely 
a  preparation  for  his  career  as  a  dramatist. 

PLAYS 

*  James  and  John    (1910)  Three  (1913) 

Miles  Dixon  (1910)  ^Everybody's  Husband 

*Mary's  Wedding  (1912)  (1917) 

The  Perfect  Widow  (1912)  The  Arbour  of  Refuge(1913) 

*A  Short  Way  with  Authors 
(1913) 


230  JAMES  AND  JOHN 

"James  and  John",  "Miles  Dixon",  "Mary's  Wedding", 
and  "A  Short  Way  with  Authors"  are  published  in  a  volume- 
"Four  Plays",  by  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London;  "Every, 
body's  Husband  ",  by  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York.  The  plays 
originally  included  in  "Four  Plays"  have  recently  appeared 
singly,  published  by  LeRoy  Phillips,  Boston. 

References:  Gilbert  Cannan,  "The  Joy  of  the  Theater", 
E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company,  New  York. 

Magazines:  Current  Opinion,  vol.  69,  p.  80,  New  York; 
The  Dial,  vol.  68,  p.  173,  New  York;  Theater  Arts,  January, 
1920,  New  York. 


JAMES  AND  JOHN 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


By  GILBERT  CANNAN 


"James  and  John"  was  first  produced  at  London  in  1910 

Characters 

John  Betts 
James  Betts 
Mrs.  Betts 
Mr.  Betts 


Scene  :  Their  parlour. 


Entered  in  the  Library  op  Congress  on  July  25,  1913. 
Copyright,  1920,  by  Le  Roy  Phillips. 

All  liyhls  reserved 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publisher,  Le  Roy  Phillips 


JAMES  AND  JOHN 

It  is  half  past  nine  of  an  evening  and  the  scene  is  the  parlour 
of  a  little  house  in  a  gaunt  row  of  houses  in  a  street  in  a  London 
suburb.  By  the  fireplace  at  the  back  James  and  John  Belts  are 
playing  backgammon,  the  board  on  a  little  table  between  them. 
They  are  both  grey.  James  has  a  beard.  John  is  clean-shaven. 
John  wears  glasses.  Both  wear  morning-coats  and  both  have 
carpet  slippers.  James  smokes,  John  does  not.  John  has  a 
glass  of  whisky  on  the  mantelpiece  within  reach:  James  is  tee- 
total. They  are  absorbed  in  their  game  and  pay  no  attention  to 
their  mother,  a  stout  old  lady  who  is  sitting  in  her  chair  reading  a 
novel,  sleeping,  and  knitting.  Her  chair  is  by  another  little 
table  on  which  the  solitary  lamp  of  the  room  is  placed  so  as  to 
cast  its  light  on  her  book.  She  is  directly  in  front  of  the  fire  so 
that  her  back  is  towards  the  audience.  John  is  sitting  with  his 
back  towards  her. 

The  room  is  ugly  and  Mid-Victorian.     Its  door  is  to  the 
right.     Its  windows  to  the  left.     In  the  window  is  a  stand  of 
miserable-looking  ferns  and  an  india-rubber  plant. 
james  {looking  up,  abruptly).     Very  nice.     I  think  I  shall 

gammon  you,  John. 
john.     H'm. 

[He  rattles  the  dice  furiously,  seeing  the  game  go  against  him. 
john  {triumphantly).     I  take  you  there  and  there   .    .    . 
james.     We  shall  see. 

[Silence. 
mrs.  betts.     Did  you  say  it  was  raining  when  you  came  in, 

John? 
john  {turning  irritably).     I  have  said  so  four  times. 

[Silence.     They  devote  themselves  to  their  game  again. 
mrs.  betts  {plaintively,  as  though  she  knew  full  well  that  her 

remarks  would  fall  on  deaf  ears.     She  lays  down  her  book). 


234  JAMES  AND  JOHN 

This  isn't  a  very  interesting  book.  ...  I  don't  think 
books  are  so  interesting  as  they  used  to  be  .  .  .  they  all 
seem  to  be  trying  to  be  like  real  life.  ...  I  must  say  I 
like  to  know  who  marries  who  .  .  .  and  I  don't  like 
stories  about  married  life.  ...  I  suppose  the  authors 
must  be  thinking  of  their  own.  .  .  .  Depressing.  .  .  . 
You  haven't  said  how  you  like  my  new  cap,  Jamie.  .  .  . 
You  did  say  it  was  raining,  John?  (No  answer  —  only  a 
frenzied  rattle  of  the  dice)  I  don't  think  anything  has  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  The  next-door  people  have  had  trouble  with 
the  servant  again.  ...  A  thief  this  one.  ...  I  wonder  if 
it  is  raining.  ...  I  wouldn't  like  it  to  be  wet  for  him.  .  .  . 
[James  and  John  look  at  each  other  and  James  looks  over  at 
his  mother.     She  is  fumbling  for  her  handkerchief. 

John.     Gammon.    .    .    . 

[He  rises  and  looks  down  at  his  brother  in  triumph.  Each 
takes  a  little  note-book  from  his  pocket  and  makes  a  note  of 
the  game. 

james.  I  still  lead  by  two  hundred  and  twenty-three 
games.    .    .    . 

[Mrs.  Beits  is  wiping  her  eyes  and  snuffling.  John  goes  to 
her  and  pats  her  shoulder  kindly. 

john.     Would  you  like  a  game,  mamma?    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.  No  —  no-o-o  ...  I  couldn't  —  not  to- 
night.   .    .    . 

james.  I  thought  we  had  agreed  not  to  talk  of  it  nor  to 
think  of  it.    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.  It  —  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  boys  to  talk  .  .  . 
b-b-but  ...  I  can't  help  but  remember  ...  all  these 
years    .    .    . 

john.     Shall  Jamie  read  to  you,  mamma? 

mrs.  betts.     It  —  it  was  so  —  so  dreadful    .    .    . 

james.  Yes,  yes,  mamma.  .  .  .  But  we  agreed  that  we 
would   .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.  It  all  comes  back  to  me  so.  .  .  .  The  whole 
thing.  ...  I  suppose  they  never  talk  of  it  at  the  bank 
now,  Jamie   .   .   .  ? 


JAMES  AND   JOHN  235 

james  (exploding).     I  wish  to  God  he  had  never  lived  to 

come  back  again    .    .    . 
john.     Tssh!  —  Tssh!   .    .    . 
james.     I  say  that  he  has  ruined  mamma's  life,  and  your 

life  and  mine.    ...   I  say  again  that  I  wish  to  God  he 

had  never  lived  to  come  back.    .   .   . 
john.     Think  of  mamma.    .    .    . 
mrs.  betts.     Your  own  father   .    .   . 

[She  weeps. 
james.     It  is  against  my  wish  that  he  is  allowed  to  come  here 

til     Ull.       ... 

john.     Do  let  us  try  to  forget  the  whole  affair  until   .    .    . 
until  he  comes.    .    .    .   Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better 
if  you  went  to  bed,  mamma? 
[James  has  fallen  to  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

mrs.  betts.  No;  I  must  stay  .   .   .  to  .   .   .  to  see  him  .  .  . 

john.     You  must  be  brave,  then    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts  (making  an  effort  and  gulping  down  her  sobs). 
Ye-yes.  .  .  .  (She  takes  Johns  hand  and  pats  it,  while  she 
anxiously  tries  to  watch  James  in  his  pacing)  But,  John 
.  .  .  I'm  afraid  —  afraid  of  Jamie.  .  .  . 
[She  says  this  almost  in  a  whisper  but  James  hears  her.  He 
stops  by  the  fireplace  and  stands  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and 
glares  at  his  mother. 

james.     I  am,  I  hope,  a  just  man    .    .    . 

john.  We  have  argued  enough.  .  .  .  We  must  wait.  .  .  . 
We  can't  have  mamma  breaking  down  before  he  comes.  .  .  . 

james.  John,  you're  a  soft  fool.  .  .  .  This  man  has  done 
us  all  an  injury.  .  .  .  He  has  brought  misery  upon  this 
house.  .  .  .  He  has  no  other  place  to  which  to  turn: 
for  a  while  he  may  rest  under  our  roof.  ...  Is  that  un- 
derstood? 

john.     Quite.    .    .    .   Can't  you  leave  it  alone? 

james.     I  wish  to  make  myself  clearly  understood.    .    .   . 

john.  I  think  we  both  understand  you  .  .  .  and  you  need 
not  speak  so  loud. 

james.     There  must  be  no  sentiment  and  he  must  be  made 


236  JAMES  AND   JOHN 

to  understand  the  terms  on  which  I  have  consented  to 
receive  him.    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.  We  —  we  must  be  kind,  Jamie  —  we  must  be 
kind.    .    .    .    He  was  always  a  kind  man    .    .    . 

james.  Kind!  ...  To  treat  you  in  the  way  he  did  — 
and  you  can  call  him  kind.  Oh!  the  foolishness  of 
women.  .  .  . 

mrs.  betts.     He  was  never  a  bad  man.    .    .    .   Is  it  raining, 
John? 
[John  goes  to  the  window  and  peeps  out. 

john.     Yes,  mamma,  it  is  raining. 

mrs.  betts.  Oh!  ...  It  isn't  too  late  for  one  of  you  to 
meet  him  at  the  station    .    .    .   is  it? 

james.  You  know  that  that  is  impossible.  ...  It  is 
enough  that  he  is  permitted  to  come  here  at  all.  ...  It 
is  my  house.  .  .  .  The  ordering  of  this  affair  is  in  my 
hands.    .    .    .   Let  it  be   .    .   . 

mrs.  betts.     He  has  been  punished  enough  for  his  sin.   .   .    . 

james.  We  have  been  punished.  /  have  been  punished. 
.  .  .  Year  after  year  I  have  been  passed  over  and  men 
younger  than  myself  have  been  promoted.  .  .  .  For 
years  I  was  made  to  feel  that  my  continued  presence  in 
the  bank  was  an  act  of  charity.  .  .  .  For  years  I  have 
felt  rather  than  heard  the  miserable  story  whispered  to 
every  raw  lad  who  came  to  the  place  .  .  .  and  suffered 
.  .  .  because  my  father  betrayed  his  trust.  .  .  .  And 
you  say  he  was  not  a  bad  man   .    .    . 

john.     Jamie  —  Jamie  — 

[Mrs.  Betts  beats  feebly  with  her  hands  against  him. 

james.  Jamie !  —  Jamie !  —  Well  enough  for  you,  John  — 
you  were  out  of  it.    .    .    . 

[John  folds  his  arms  as  though  he  realised  the  hopelessness  of 
endeavouring  to  stem  the  stream  of  his  brother  s  indignation, 
and  to  indicate  that  he  also  has  suffered  but  is  too  much  a  man 
to  talk  about  it.  This  goads  James  only  to  further  indigna- 
tion.    John  mutters  unintelligibly. 

james.     What  do  you  say?     What  do  you  say? 


JAMES  AND   JOHN  237 


john.  I  say  that  what's  done  is  done  and  let  the  past  bury 
its  dead. 

james.     It  is  not  dead.    .    .    . 

MRS.  betts.  Don't  quarrel  —  don't  quarrel.  I  cannot  bear 
it.    .    .    . 

james.  Mother,  we  must  understand  each  other  —  you, 
John,  and  I  —  we  must  see  this  thing  as  it  is.  .  .  .  Set 
aside  the  fact  that  this  man  is  our  father  and  your  husband. 
.  .  .  We  must  see  what  he  did  coldly,  dispassionately, 
and  judge  accordingly. 

john.  I  read  in  a  book  that  no  man  has  the  right  to  judge 
another  man    .    .    . 

james.     Facts  are  facts.   .   .    . 

john.  We  don't  know  what  drove  him  to  do  what  he 
did.    .    .    . 

james.  We  know  —  what  we  know.  We  know  the  injury 
that  he  has  done  to  ourselves.  We  know  that  because 
our  father  —  because  our  father  .  .  .  (Mrs.  Betts  now  has 
her  face  in  her  handkerchief;  James  is  for  a  moment  stopped 
but  stiffens  himself)  because  our  father  robbed  the  clients 
of  the  branch  of  which  he  was  manager  in  order  to  keep  the 
women  whom  he  had  bought   .    .    . 

john.     You   .    .    . 

[James  raises  his  hand. 

james.  I  will  end  where  I  have  begun.  ...  It  is  true  that 
he  was  revered  as  an  upright  gentleman,  that  he  gave  large 
sums  in  charity,  that  he  did  much  good  for  the  poor  of 
this  district,  that  he  did  this,  that,  and  the  other  thing 
which  kept  him  conspicuous  as  a  righteous  man.  .  .  . 
We  know  that  he  was  an  excellent  man  of  business  and  that 
the  directors  gave  him  the  opportunity  to  escape.  .  .  . 
There  is  that  to  his  credit  that  he  had  the  courage  to  face 
the  consequences  of  his  actions.  .  .  .  But  even  in  that 
he  had  no  thought  for  us,  to  whom  rather  than  to  himself 
his  thoughts  should  have  turned.  .  .  .  We  know  only 
too  well  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  the  arrest,  the  infamous 
revelations,    the    position    irretrievably    lost.    .    .    .    We 


238  JAMES  AND  JOHN 

know  —  you  and  I,  John  —  we  know  the  ruin  that  it  has 
been  to  us.  .  .  .  We  have  seen  other  men  of  our  own 
age  fulfill  their  lives   .   .   . 

john.     Will  you  cease? 

james.  We  know  that  we  have  been  chained  here,  you  and 
I,  to  rot  and  rot  .  .  .  men  wasted  .  .  .  without  pride 
of  home  or  pride  of  work.  .  .  .  We  have  sat  here  year 
in,  year  out,  waiting,  waiting  .  .  .  for  nothing  .  .  . 
knowing  that  nothing  could  ever  come  to  us.    .    .    . 

MRS.  BETTS.      O-O-oh.     .     .     . 

james.  We  have  suffered  enough,  I  say,  and  if  now  that  he 
has  served  his  punishment  and  is  free  we  take  him  under 
our  roof  again,  to  live  here  in  this  town,  with  us  whom  he 
has  so  —  has  so  —  so  wrecked,  in  this  town  where  he  is  still 
infamous  .  .  .  then  that  which  is  only  now  whispered  of 
of  us  will  be  common  talk.  .  .  .  We  shall  be  lower  than 
we  have  ever  been  and  lose  all  that  we  have.  .  .  .  That 
is  all. 

[He  takes  a  pipe  from  his  pocket,  fills  it  vnth  tobacco,  lights 
it,  and  stalks  out  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Belts  sobs  quietly  for  a 
little. 

mrs.  betts.     John,  dear  —  John   .   .   . 

john  (without  moving).     Yes,  mother? 

mrs.  betts.     He  was  never  a  bad  man. 

john.     No   .   .   .   mother. 

mrs.  betts.     It  must  have  been  bitter  for  Jamie   .   .   . 

john.     Yes,  mother,  it  has  not  been   .    .   .   easy. 

mrs.  betts.  He  was  always  a  kind  man  .  .  .  always. 
...  I  don't  understand  —  I  never  shall  understand  what 
made  him  do  .  .  .  do  .  .  .  what  he  did.  .  .  .  He 
...  he  used  to  be  so  fond  of  children.  .  .  .  You  don't 
think  hardly  of  him,  John?    .    .    . 

john.     Not  —  not  for  a  long  time  now,  mother. 

mrs.  betts.  I  never  shall  understand  what  made  him  to 
.  .  .  because  —  because  he  —  he  never  really  turned  from 
me  ...  I  should  have  known  if  —  if  he  had  done  that. 
.   .    .   Do  you  understand,  John? 


JAMES  AND  JOHN  239 

JOHN.     I  am  trying,  mother 

MRS.  betts.  He  was  sometimes  impatient  with  me  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  I  was  a  foolish  woman.  .  .  .  Such  a  clever 
man  he  was.    .   .   .   But  he  never  turned  from  me   .   .   . 

jonN.     No 

mrs.  betts.  I  remember  now  .  .  .  often  .  .  .  when  he 
told  me.  .  .  .  How  kind  he  was  .  .  .  and  gentle.  .  .  . 
He  had  been  ill  and  worried  for  a  long  time,  and  then  one 
day  he  came  home  and  sat  without  a  word  all  through  the 
evening.  ...  It  was  raining  then.  .  .  .  About  ten 
o'clock  .  .  .  {John  is  sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hands 
on  the  sofa  between  the  fire  and  the  window)  about  ten  o'clock 
...  he  came  and  kissed  me,  and  told  me  to  go  to  bed. 
Then  he  went  out.  ...  I  do  not  know  where  he  went, 
but  he  came  back  wet  through,  covered  with  mud,  and  his 
coat  was  all  torn.  ...  I  was  awake  when  he  came  back, 
but  he  spoke  no  word  to  me.  .  .  .  He  came  to  bed  and 
lay  trembling  and  cold.  ...  I  took  his  hand.  .  .  . 
He  shook  and  he  was  very  cold.  .  .  .  He  —  he  turned  to 
me  like  a  child  and  sobbed,  sobbed.  .  .  .  Then,  dear, 
he  told  me  what  he  had  done.  .  .  .  He  told  me  that 
.  .  .  that  he  had  tried  —  tried  to  do  away  with  himself 
.  .  .  and  —  and  could  not.  .  .  .  He  never  asked  me  to 
forgive  him.  .  .  .  He  told  me  how  the  directors  had 
asked  him  to  go  away  to  avoid  prosecution.  .  .  .  He 
said  that  he  must  bear  his  punishment.  .  .  .  He  is  not 
a  bad  man,  John.  .  .  .  Men  and  women  are  such  strange 
creatures  .  .  .  there  is  never  any  knowing  what  they 
will  do   .    .    . 

john.     You  want  him  to  come  back,  mother? 

mrs.  betts.     Why,  yes.   .   .   .   Where  else  should  he  go?  .  .  . 

john.  You  know,  mother  .  .  .  Jamie  wanted  to  be  mar- 
ried  .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.     Oh !  yes  —  yes  —  yes.   .   .   .  Poor  boy.   .   .   . 

john.     We're  men.     It  has  been  a  long  time.     We're  old 
men   .    .    .   now   .    .    . 
[John  mends  the  fire  and  takes  his  whisky  and  soda. 


240  JAMES  AND   JOHN 

mrs.  betts.  John,  dear  .  .  .  {John  turns  from  poking  the 
-fire)  I  would  like  him  to  have  his  old  chair  that  he  used 
to  sit  in  .  .  .  and  his  old  slippers  .  .  .  and  there's 
an  old  pipe  that  he  had  —  in  my  room  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  . 

john.     Very  well.    .   .   . 

[John  goes  out.  Mrs.  Betts  sniffs  and  dries  her  eyes.  She 
takes  up  her  book,  reads  it  for  a  little,  then  lays  it  down,  takes 
her  knitting,  plies  her  needles  for  a  little,  then  lays  that  down. 
She  fixes  her  spectacles  and  looks  anxiously  at  the  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece.  It  has  an  aggressively  loud  tick.  Then  she 
looks  towards  the  window  and,  rising  slowly  to  her  feet,  shuffles 
across,  and  looks  out.     James  returns  and  finds  her  there. 

james  (sternly).  I  think  you  should  sit  quietly  and  calm 
yourself. 

mrs.  betts  (meekly).     Yes,  Jamie. 
[She  shuffles  back  to  her  chair. 

james.     Would  you  like  me  to  read  to  you? 

MRS.  betts.     Please,  Jamie. 

[James  goes  to  tlie  little  dwarf  bookcase  in  the  recess  by  the 
fireplace  and  takes  down  a  book.  He  moves  the  table  with 
the  backgammon  board,  and  draws  up  his  chair  to  the  right 
side  of  the  fireplace,  and  then  sits  so  as  to  have  the  light  of 
the  lamp  on  his  book. 

james  (reading — "Pickwick  "  Chap,  xxxii).  "There  is  a  re- 
pose about  Lant  Street,  in  the  Borough,  which  sheds  a 
gentle  melancholy  upon  the  soul.  There  are  always  a  good 
many  houses  to  let  in  the  street; " 

mrs.  betts.     Like  our  street. 

james.  "It  is  a  by -street  and  its  dulness  is  soothing.  A 
house  in  Lant  Street  would  not  come  within  the  denomina- 
tion of  a  first-rate  residence,  in  the  strict  acceptation  of 
the  term;  but  it  is  a  most  desirable  spot  nevertheless.  If 
a  man  wished  to  abstract  himself  from  the  world  —  to  re- 
move himself  from  within  reach  of  temptation  —  to  place 
himself  beyond  the  possibility  of  any  inducement  to  look 
out  of  the  window  —  he  should  by  all  means  go  to  Lant 
Street. 


JAMES   AND  JOHN  241 

"Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  embellished  one  side  of  the  fire  in  his 
first-floor  front,  early  on  the  evening  for  which  he  had  in- 
vited Mr.  Pickwick:  and  Mr.  Ben  Allen  the  other.  The 
preparations  for  the  visitors  appeared  to  be  completed. 
The  umbrellas  in  the  passage  had  been  heaped  into  a  little 
corner  outside  the  best  parlour  door,  the  bonnet  and  shawl 
of  the  landlady's  servant  had  been  removed  from  the 
bannisters:  there  were  not  more  than  two  pairs  of  pattens 
on  the  street  door  mat,  and  a  kitchen  candle,  with  a  very 
long  snuff,  burnt  cheerfully  on  the  ledge  of  the  staircase 
window. "   Are  you  listening? 

mrs.  betts.     Yes,  dear. 

james.  "Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  had  himself  purchased  the  spirits 
at  a  wine  vaults  in  High  Street  and  had  returned  home  pre- 
ceding the  bearer  thereof,  to  preclude  the  possibility  of 
their  delivery  at  the  wrong  house.     The  punch  was  ready 

made  in  a  saucepan  in  the  bedroom: " 

[The  door  is  thrown  open  and  John  comes  staggering  in  with  a 
great  chair  which  he  places  on  the  left  side  of  the  fireplace. 
He  takes  a  pair  of  red  leather  slippers  from  his  pockets  and 
places  them  in  front  of  the  fire  to  warm.  From  another 
pocket  he  produces  a  pipe  and  an  old  tin  of  tobacco  and  lays 
them  on  the  mantelpiece.  James  stops  in  his  reading  and 
scowls.  The  old  lady  starts  up  in  her  seat  and  watches 
John's  movements  intently.  John  takes  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  James  but  goes  out  of  the  room  again.  James  opens 
his  mouth  to  speak  but  decides  to  go  on  reading  as  though 
nothing  had  happened. 

james.  "Notwithstanding  the  highly  satisfactory  nature  of 
all  these  arrangements,  there  was  a  cloud  on  the  counte- 
nance of  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  as  he  sat  by  the  fireside.  There 
was  a  sympathising  expression  too  in  the  features  of  Mr. 
Ben  Allen,  as  he  gazed  intently  on  the  coals:  and  a  tone 
of  melancholy  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  after  a  long  silence : 
"  'Well,  it  is  unlucky  that  she  should  have  taken  it  into 
her  head  to  turn  sour,  just  on  this  occasion.  She  might 
at  least  have  waited  till  to-morrow.'  " 


242  JAMES  AND   JOHN 

[John  returns  with  a  glass,  a  decanter  of  whisky,  and  a  jug  of 
water.  These  he  places  on  the  table  by  his  mother's  side.  She 
looks  up  at  him  gratefully.  John,  a  little  ostentatiously,  takes 
a  book  and  sits  on  the  sofa.  James  shuts  "Pickwick"  and 
remains  gazing  into  the  fire.     They  sit  in  silence  for  some  time. 

mrs.  betts.     Is  the  clock  right,  John? 

john  (looking  at  his  watch).  A  little  fast.  ...  I  told  Jane 
she  might  go  to  bed.     I  thought  it  better. 

MRS.  BETTS.       Yes 

[John  is  conscious  that  James  is  scrutinising  him  narrowly, 
and  becomes  a  little  uneasy.  He  sits  so  that  the  chair  he  has 
brought  is  between  himself  and  his  brother.  He  can  see  his 
mother  from  this  position.  They  sit  again  in  silence  for  some 
time. 

MRS.  betts.  There  was  a  funeral  in  the  street  to-day.  Quite 
a  grand  affair.  .  .  .  (Silence)  There  have  been  quite  a 
number  of  deaths  in  the  district  lately.  .  .  .  (Silence) 
They  go  on  having  babies,  though  ...  I  wonder  why 
.  .  .  (Silence)  I  suppose  everything  happens  for  the 
best.  .  .  .  (Her  prattle  becomes  intolerable  to  James,  who 
springs  to  his  feet  and  walks  furiously  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  subsides  finally,  having  scared  her  into  silence,  and  they 
sit  mum  while  the  aggressive  clock  tick-ticks,  and  faint  noises 
from  the  street  come  into  the  room  —  the  sound  of  wheels  on 
cobblestones,  of  whistling  boys,  of  a  street-brawl.  Then  comes 
the  boom  of  a  great  distant  clock  striking  ten)  That's  the 
Town  Hall.  When  you  hear  it  so  clearly  as  that  it  means 
rain.    .    .    . 

[Silence  again.  The  bell  of  the  house  is  heard  to  tinkle. 
John  leaps  to  his  feet  and  goes  from  the  room.  Mrs.  Betts 
starts  up  trembling  and  fearful.  James  sits  bolt  upright  and 
stern  in  his  chair.  They  both  turn  and  watch  the  door.  John 
returns  alone. 

john.     Only  the  post. 

james.     Anything  for  me? 

john.     No;  for  me.    .    .    . 

[He  reads  his  letter  and  throws  it  in  the  fire.  James  and  Mrs. 


JAMES   AND   JOHN  243 

Beits  subside  into  their  former  attitudes.  John  returns  to 
the  sofa  and  takes  up  his  book  again. 

mrs.  betts.     Who  was  it  from,  John? 

john.     It  was  nothing  of  any  consequence. 
[They  relapse  into  silence. 

james.  It  is  past  your  bed-time,  mother.  (Mrs.  Betts  takes 
no  notice)     It  is  past  ten  o'clock  mother.    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.     I  know.    .    .    .    (They  are  silent  again.     James 
falls  to  plucking  his  beard,  and  Mrs.  Betts  to  watching  him) 
How  like  you  are  to  your  father,  James !    .    .    .    I  suppose 
that  is  why  you  could  never  get  on  together.    .    .    . 
[James  winces,  but  ig?wres  the  remark. 

john.  I  think,  mother,  if  we  agreed  not  to  talk  it  would  be 
easier  for  all  of  us.    .    .    . 

mrs.  betts.     Very  well,  John  .   .   .  only  —  I  —  couldn't  bear 
the  silence.    .    .    . 
[James  opens  "'Pickwick"  again  and  pretends  to  be  absorbed. 

john.     If  you  would  read,  Jamie    .    .    . 

james.  She  does  not  listen  .  .  .  (Mrs.  Betts  has  caught  the 
sound  of  something  outside  the  house.  She  turns  and  looks, 
half  in  fear,  half  in  eagerness,  towards  the  window.  She  lifts 
her  hand  and  seems  to  point  in  that  direction.  The  house  bell 
is  heard  again.  John  looks  up,  sees  her  agitation,  and  comes 
to  soothe  her.  He  moves  towards  the  door,  and  has  reached  it 
when  James  shakes  himself  and  holds  up  a  hand)  Stop! 
(John  turns)     I  will  go. 

john.     I  beg  your  pardon.     /  will  go. 

[He  opens  the  door  and  goes  out.  James  assumes  a  com- 
manding attitude  by  the  fireplace.  Mrs.  Betts  turns  and 
watches  the  door.  She  hears  murmurs  of  voices,  and,  rising 
to  her  feet,  begins  to  shuffle  towards  the  door. 

james  (without  looking  at  her;  in  a  firm,  quiet  voice).  Mother  — 
sit  down.  (He  never  takes  his  eyes  from  the  door.  Mrs. 
Betts  stands  turning  piteously  between  his  command  and  her 
instinctive  inclination.  TJien  slowly  she  returns  and  sub- 
sides into  her  chair,  but  never  takes  her  eyes  from  the  door. 
Mrs.  Betts  begins  to  whimper)     Tssh !   Tssh ! 


244  JAMES  AND  JOHN 

[The  door  slowly  opens  and  John  comes  in,  grave,  solemn. 
He  holds  the  door  open  and  presently  Mr.  Belts  comes  in. 
He  is  a  big  man,  bid  a  broken  and  a  wretched;  and  yet  there 
is  a  fine  dignity  in  him.  He  stands  by  the  door  for  some 
moments,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  wife.  He  comes  towards  her 
slowly  as  though  he  were  afraid,  were  not  sure;  that  breaks  in 
him,  and  he  stumbles  towards  her  and  kisses  her. 

betts.     Wife   .    .    . 

[She  breaks  into  a  little  moaning  cry,  fondles,  and  kisses  his 
hand.  John  comes  and  stands  behind  them.  Mr.  Betts 
turns  from  his  wife  to  James  and  holds  out  his  hand.  James 
bows  stiffly,  and  for  a  moment  there  is  silence.  The  old  an- 
tagonism leaps  in  both. 

james  (with  stiff  dignity).     You  are  welcome,  sir.    .    .    . 
[Mr.  Betts  stretches  to  his  full  height  and  bows  with  a  dignity 
no  less  stiff  than  that  of  his  son.     James  stands  cold,  while 
the  other  three  are  grouped  together.     Mrs.  Betts  tugs  at  her 
husband's  hand. 

mrs.  betts.  Your  chair,  dear  .  .  .  John  brought  it  down 
for  you.   .   .   . 

[Mr.  Betts  moves  and  sits  in  the  chair  by  the  fireplace.  James 
waits  for  a  little  and  then,  without  a  word,  sits  in  his  chair. 
John  brings  up  a  chair  and  sits  between  his  mother  and  father, 
nearer  to  his  mother.  They  sit  so  in  awkward  silence,  during 
which  Mr.  Betts  turns  his  eyes  from  one  to  another  of  his  fam- 
ily. James  alone  does  not  look  at  his  father,  but  studiously 
away  from  him.  John  turns  and  mixes  a  glass  of  whisky 
and  water  for  his  father.  This  the  old  man  takes  gladly.  He 
is  reminded  that  he  is  cold  by  this  attention,  and  shivers.  He 
holds  out  a  hand  towards  the  blazing  fire,  then  finds  James 
looking  at  it  vindictively  and  withdraws  it  hastily. 

john.  Your  slippers  are  there.  .  .  .  (Mr.  Betts  takes  off 
his  boots  and  gives  them  to  John,  who  takes  them  out  of  the 
room)     Will  you   .    .    .   smoke? 

mr.  betts.  Thank  you.  (He  takes  his  old  pipe  and  tobacco 
and  lights,  looking  at  James  the  while.  He  blows  out  a  cloud 
of  smoke  gratefully.     He  thrusts  oid  a  leg  towards  the  fire) 


JAMES  AND  JOHN  245 

The  value  of  tobacco  is  best  appreciated  when  it  is  the 
last  you  possess  and  there  is  no  chance  of  getting  more. 
.    .    .    Bismarck  said  that    .    .    . 

MRS.  betts  (who  has  been  weeping  quietly) .  I  think  —  I  think 
I  must  go  to  —  to  bed.  (She  rises  to  her  feet  and  shuffles 
slowly  over  to  her  husband.  She  bends  over  him  and  kisses 
him  and  with  her  weak  old  hands  pats  his  cheek)  I  —  I  hope 
you  are  not  wet,  dear.  ...  It  must  be  raining  ter- 
ribly.   .    .    . 

[She  shuffles  over  to  James,  kisses  him,  and  John  sees  her  to 
the  door,  then  comes  back  and  sits  in  her  chair.  Mr.  Betts  has 
watched  his  wife  with  burning  eyes  as  she  moved. 

mr.  betts.     How  long?     How  long? 

james  (icily).     It  is  six  months  since  she  was  out  of  doors. 
.    .    .   It  is  almost  six  years  since  she  has  been  well  enough 
to  stay  away  from   .    .    .   from  home.    .    .   . 
[Mr.  Betts  draws  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

john.     Be  just,  James,  be  just. 

james  (in  the  same  hard  monotone).  It  is  twelve  years  since 
we  came  to  this  house  in  this  melancholy  street.  ...  In 
this  room  she  has  sat,  day  in,  day  out,  year  in,  year  out. 
.  .  .  Day  by  day  we  have  set  out,  I  for  the  bank,  John 
there  for  his  office.  .  .  .  Year  by  year  we  have  known 
that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  .  .  .  that  we  must 
sacrifice  everything  to  her.  .  .  .  We  have  known  that. 
....  We  have  known  that  we  could  bring  her  nothing, 
that  she  could  bring  us  nothing.  .  .  .  There  she  sat  .  .  . 
[Mr.  Betts  sits  with  bowed  head,  offering  no  protest. 

john.  Be  just,  James,  be  just.  .  .  .  She  has  been  waiting 
for  this  day    .    .    . 

james  (ignoring  him).  We  have  known  that  such  an  ex- 
istence was  futile  .  .  .  sterile.  .  .  .  We  have  all  been 
.    .    .   prisoners. 

john.     Shame  on  you    .    .    . 

james.  I  have  told  you  in  my  letter  the  terms  on  which  I 
bid  you  welcome  to  my  house.  .  .  .  What  have  you  to 
say? 


246  JAMES   AND  JOHN 


[Mr.  Belts  looks  at  John,  then  to  James.  Their  eyes  meet 
and  for  a  moment  they  are  man  to  man,  enmity  between  them, 
the  man  judging  and  the  man  being  judged.  A  little  nervous 
laugh  escapes  from  Mr.  Betts.  He  puts  up  his  hand  to  the 
place  where  his  wife  kissed  him  and  caressed  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  follow  her  slow  path  to  the  door.  He  shrugs,  seems  to 
shrink.     He  flings  up  his  hands. 

MR.  betts.     Nothing.    .    .    ,   There  is  nothing  to  say.    .    .    . 
We  are  all  so    ...    so  old    .    .    . 

[There  is  a  silence.  The  clock  ticks  more  wickedly  than  ever. 
James  and  John  sit  with  bowed  heads. 

john  (to  his  father).     Shall  I  show  you  your  room? 

mr.  betts.     Thank  you,  John. 

[James  rises,  goes  to  the  door,  and  opens  it.  As  John  and  Mr. 
Betts  reach  the  door,  James  holds  out  his  hand  to  his  father. 

james.     Good  night  —  father. 

mr.  betts.     Good  night,  James. 

[John  and  Mr.  Betts  go  out.  James  puts  out  the  light  and 
follows. 

curtain 


THE  SNOW  MAN 

LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 

Laurence  Housman  is  not  a  professional  dramatist.  Al- 
though he  has  written  many  plays  he  is  not  to  be  classed 
with  the  playwright  whose  business  it  is  to  supply  the  stage 
regularly  with  effective  pieces.  Born  in  1867,  he  has  turned 
his  hand  to  poetry,  fiction,  translation,  and  the  drama,  while 
he  is  well  known  as  an  illustrator  and  a  lecturer  on  social 
subjects.  His  best  known  plays  —  "Prunella",  written  in 
collaboration  with  Granville  Barker,  and  "The  Chinese 
Lantern"  —  belong  to  the  realm  of  fancy;  they  are  not  only 
effective  plays,  they  are  genuine  literature.  Of  late  years 
Mr.  Housman  has  written  a  number  of  one-act  plays,  in 
verse  and  prose,  on  mythical  and  pseudo-historical  subjects, 
and  some  based  upon  modern  subjects. 

Laurence  Housman  is  gifted  with  a  fine  sense  of  the  the- 
ater; as  an  "outsider"  he  still  clings  to  the  notion  that  a 
good  play  need  not  necessarily  be  written  in  poor  English. 

PLAYS 

Bethlehem  (1902)  *As  Good  as  Gold  (1916) 

Prunella  (1906)  *The  Snow  Man  (1916) 

(In  collaboration  with  *Bird  in  Hand  (1916) 

Granville  Barker)  *Nazareth  (1916) 

The  Chinese  Lantern  (1908)  *The  Return  of  Alcestis 
Lysistrata  (1910)  (1916) 

*A  Likely  Story  (1910)  *Apollo  in  Hades  (1920) 

*The  Lord   of  the  Harvest  *The  Death  of  Alcestis  (1920) 

(1910)  *The  Doom  of  Admetus 
Pains  and  Penalties  (1911)  (1920) 

Alice  in  Ganderland  (1911)  *The  Christmas  Tree  (1920) 


248  THE   SNOW   MAN 

"Bethlehem"  is  published  by  Macmillan  Company,  New 
York;  "Prunella"  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston; 
"The  Chinese  Lantern",  "As  Good  as  Gold",  "A  Likely 
Story",  "The  Snow  Man",  "The  Lord  of  the  Harvest", 
"Bird  in  Hand",  "Nazareth",  "The  Return  of  Alcestis", 
separately,  by  Samuel  French,  New  York;  "Apollo  in  Hades  ", 
"The  Death  of  Alcestis",  and  "The  Doom  of  Admetus"  in 
one  volume  entitled  "The  Wheel",  by  Samuel  French; 
"Pains  and  Penalties"  by  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London; 
"Lysistrata"  by  The  Woman's  Press,  London;  and  "The 
Christmas  Tree"  in  The  Drama  magazine,  Chicago,  Decem- 
ber, 1920. 

Reference:  Literary  Supplement,  New  York  Evening  Post, 
May  8,  1920. 


THE  SNOW  MAN 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


By  LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 


"The  Snow  Man"  has  not  been  professionally  produced. 

Characters 

Joan,  A  peasant  woman 

t  Her  children 
Matthew  Mark  J 

Jaspar,  Her  husband 

The  Snow  Man 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Laurence  Housman. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author. 

Caution.  Amateurs  and  Professionals  are  hereby  warned  that  "The  Snow  Man  ", 
bring  fully  protected  under  the  copyright  laws  of  the  United  States,  is  subject  to  royalty, 
and  any  one  presenting  the  play  without  the  consent  of  the  author  or  his  authorized 
agent,  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Application  for  the  right  to  pro- 
duce  "The  Snow  Man"  must  be  made  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New 
York  City. 


THE    SNOW    MAN 

Scene.  A  poor  peasant  dwelling,  barely  furnished  with  ar- 
ticles of  the  roughest  description,  a  trestle-table,  two  benches,  — 
a  large  one  serving  as  a  window-seat,  and  a  smaller  one  standing 
by  the  hearth,  —  a  wooden  chair,  a  spinning  wheel,  a  large  bread 
pan,  a  shell  containing  household  crockery,  and  on  the  inner  wall 
of  the  ingle  a  few  pots  and  pans  hanging  on  the  wall.  The  room 
is  wide  and  low;  to  the  left  is  a  deep  hooded  fireplace  with  con- 
taining walls  on  either  side  of  it,  —  to  one  side  a  bread  oven,  to 
the  other  a  cubby-bed  with  doors;  opposite  to  the  fireplace  is  a 
door  leading  to  the  woodshed.  The  house  door  is  at  the  back, 
rather  to  the  right;  to  its  left  a  long  low  ivindow  extends  almost  to 
a  line  with  the  fireplace.  In  the  right  hand  corner  stands  a 
large  chest.  The  roof  is  of  heavy  beams  gray  with  smoke,  and 
between  them  shows  an  inner  surface  of  thatch.  The  ivalls  are 
oj  blue  plaster  marked  by  mildew,  with  patches  here  and  there 
where  the  plaster  has  peeled  off.  It  is  winter  and  daylight  is 
drawing  on.  Outside  the  world  is  white  with  snow.  A 
peasant-woman  moves  to  and  fro  with  quick  dogged  pace.  The 
pace  of  a  hard  worker  tired  but  always  pushed  for  time.  She 
takes  black  bread  out  of  the  oven,  and  puts  the  remainder  into 
the  bread-pan.  Then  she  takes  doivn  the  garments  from  before 
the  fire,  presses  them  with  a  heavy  iron,  and  puts  them  away  in 
the  chest.  While  crossing  the  room  to  and  fro  she  economizes 
her  time,  never  going  empty-handed.  She  puts  milk  to  warm 
on  the  fire,  and  gets  down  two  small  mugs  from  a  shelf.  She  also 
gets  from  the  cubby-bed  two  night  garments,  and  hangs  them  to 
warm  over  the  bench  by  the  hearth.  While  she  is  thus  engaged, 
children's  voices  are  heard  outside,  laughing  and  shouting.  The 
woman,  absorbed  in  her  work,  pays  no  attention.  Two  small 
romping  figures  occasionally  pass  the  window.  Presently  they 
begin  to  sing. 


252  THE   SNOW  MAN 

children.     Here  we  have  a  snow  man,  a  snow  man,  a  snow 
man! 
Oh,  where  does  he  come  from,  and  what  shall  be  his  name? 
He  says  his  name  is  no  man,  no  man,  no  man! 
And  nowhere  and  nowhere  the  land  from  which  he  came. 

(Now  again) 

Oh,  why  did  you  come  here,  oh,  snow  man,  oh,  snow  man? 
And  will  you  now  a  friend  be,  or  will  you  be  a  foe? 
"Oh,  whether  I  a  friend  am,  or  whether  I'm  a  foeman, 
It's  here  I  mean  to  stay  now,  until  I  have  to  go ! " 

(Now  again) 

But  what  should  you  go  for,  oh,  snow  man,  oh,  snow  man? 
And  why  would  you  leave  us,  when  home  lies  at  hand? 
"Oh,  when  the  sun  calls  me,  then  I  can  wait  for  no  man, 
But  back  I  must  go  again,  to  my  own  land!" 
And  now  we've  made  him,  he'll  have  to  stay, 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  He  can't  get  away. 

[The  door  bursts  open,  the  two  children  run  in:  Matthew 
Mark  and  Mary  Ann. 

Mary.     Oh,  mother,  come  and  look  at  our  snow  man. 

Matthew.     Mother,  do  look  at  him. 

mart.     When  we  began 

A-building  him,  we  didn't  ever  know 

How  big  he'd  get  to  be  —  he  seemed  to  grow 

All  by  himself! 

matthew.     Mother,  do  look! 

joan.     There,  there! 

It's  "look,"  "look,"  "look,"  all  day! 

(She  speaks  in  a  good-humored  scolding  tone  which  the  chil- 
dren seem  not  in  the  least  afraid  of.  She  goes  and  looks  out) 
Well,  I  declare, 

You've  done  a  silly  thing  —  made  'im  to  stand 
Right  in  the  door !  —  with  no  room  either  'and 
For  folks  to  get  by. 


THE  SNOW  MAN  253 

MATTHEW.      Yah! 

mary.     Yah!  Ah,  ha!  That's  why. 

Matthew.     We  didn't  want  to  let  no  folk  get  by 
To  steal  our  muvver! 

(He  rubs  against  her) 

joan.     Here,  and  what  d'yer  mean 

Getting  yourself  all  wet  like  this?     You've  been 
And  clammed  yourself,  —  you  too.     Now  off  you  go! 
Take  all  those  things  off!     One  can't  ever  know 
What  children  will  be  up  to  next.     Come  here! 

{Catches  hold  of  Matthew) 
Now  you  undress  yourself. 

(To  Mary) 
You  get  in  there 

Into  the  warm.     Stand  still,  stand  still,  I  say, 
And  put  this  round  yer.     Oh,  so  that's  the  way 
You  do  when  I  ain't  looking?     All  day  long 
You're  up  to  mischief.     Always  something  wrong 
Soon  as  my  back  is  turned.     That  heap  o'  snow 
How  long's  that  to  stay  there,  I'd  like  to  know? 
Here,  take  your  milk,  and  there's  a  bit  o'  bread 
For  both  on  yer.     Don't  want  it?     Ah,  it's  bed 
You'd  best  be  off  to!     There,  put  your  mug  down! 
Now  come  and  get  into  your  nighty-gown. 
Ah,  you  sweet  thing!  Well,  kiss  your  mother  then! 
But  you  mind  what  I  say  —  no  more  snow  men 
To-morrow ! 
[Crosses  the  room. 

mary.  Mother  —  Mother  —  will  there  be 
Anyone  here  to-morrow?  Shan't  we  see 
Someone? 

joan.     See  someone? 

mary.     I  mean,  won't  there  no 

Man  come  with  a  spade  and  clear  away  the  snow? 
Last  year  one  come. 

joan.     That  was  your  father,  —  he 

Haven't  been  near  since,  and  where  he  be 


254  THE  SNOW  MAN 

God  alone  knows.     Here!     Don't  fill  your  'ead 

With  silly  fancies!     You  get  on  to  bed. 

[She  goes  out  into  the  woodshed. 
matthew.     Say !   Say !   She's  gone !  come  along,  Mary  Ann 

And  have  another  look  at  our  snow  man. 
(They  run  across  to  the  window) 

Snow  man!   Snow  man! 
mary.     It's  no  good,  he  don't  hear,  he's  gone  to  sleep. 

(Re-enter  Joan) 
joan.     Ah,  what  are  you  up  to  there?    Back  you  go,  quick. 

Or  else  you'll  get  the  rod!     (They  skip  back  to  the  fireplace) 

Now  you   kneel   down   and   say   your   prayers.     "Pray 

God" 

[The  two  children  kneel  at  bench  with  their  backs  to  the  fire. 

children.     "Pray  God" 

joan  (as  she  moves  about  folding  up  clothes,  etc.).   "Pray  God 

make  Baba  good" 

children.     Pray  God  make  Baba  good. 
joan.     "Give  Baba  bread." 
children.     Give  Baba  bread. 

joan.     " Give  all  the  hungry  food" 

children.     Give  all  the  hungry  food. 

joan.     "Peace  to  the  dead."     [Crosses  herself. 

children.     Peace  to  the  dead. 

[Joan  stands  lost  in  reverie  and  speaks  unconsciously  by  rote. 
joan.     "God  bless"  —  [She  turns  and  looks  oid. 
children.     God  bless  —  [They  ivait  to  be  prompted. 
matthew.     Say,  muvver,  shall  we  pray  for  the  snow  man 

too?     Shall  us?     Shall  us? 
joan  (still  musing).     Nay,  nay!    You  leave  the  snow  man 

out!    He  knows  his  way  —  he  knows  his  way. 

J  brother 
children.    Bless  mother,  \ 

[     sister 

Bring  Dada  home,  and  leave  the  snow  man  out.     Amen. 

[Joan  stands  lost  in  her  own  thoughts.     The  children  creep 

behind  her  toward  the  window. 


kind  friends  all  about, 


THE  SNOW  MAN  255 

mary.     Good-night,  snow  man! 
matthew.     Good-night! 

[They  approach  Joan. 
mary.     Good-night,  mother! 
joan.     Good-night,  darling! 
matthew.     Night,  mother. 
joan.     Night-night,  my  dear,  —  night-night! 

[Mary  Ann  goes  and  opens  cubby-bed  and  begins  to  climb  in. 

Matthew  stops  outside. 
matthew.     Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and  John, 

Guard  the  bed  that  I  lie  on; 

Four  corners  to  my  bed, 

Four  angels  at  my  head, 

One  to  watch,  and  one  to  pray, 

And  two  to 

joan.     There,  you  get  in!  you've  prayed  enough  to-night. 

[She  goes  to  close  doors. 
mary.     Don't  shut  it  up  yet,  mother,  leave  a  light. 
joan.     Just  you  be  quiet.     Be  thankful  you  lie  warm, 

There's  some  as  won't  to-night.   I  can  hear  storm 

A-coming  on. 

[She  leaves  door  of  cubby-bed  half  open. 
matthew.     Sing,  mother,  will  ye  sing? 
joan  (putting  away  the  bread  and  the  milk-mugs  and  folding 

up  the  strewn  garments;  starts  to  sing  in  a  dull  toneless  voice 

with  little  tune). 

There  comes  a  man  to  a  maid,  and  said, 

All  in  a  year  and  a  day 

"So  thou  be  mine  now  let  us  be  wed 

Out  of  the  world  and  away." 

Said  the  maid  to  the  man,  "If  I  thee  wed 

Out  of  the  world  and  away, 
Bide  'e  at  home,  and  find  me  bread 

Just  for  a  year  and  a  day." 


256  THE  SNOW  MAN 


They  hadn't  been  wed,  the  maid  and  the  man, 

For  a  year,  for  a  year  and  a  day, 
Before  a  want  in  his  heart  began, 

To  be  out  to  the  world  and  away. 

"Oh,  wife,  there's  come  a  call  to  my  blood, 

To  be  out  in  the  world  and  away, 
By  road  and  river,  by  field  and  flood, 

Just  for  a  year  and  a  day." 

Out  and  away  to  the  world  he  went, 

By  road  and  river  and  sea. 
Oh,  man  of  the  road,  is  your  heart  content? 

Will  'e  never  come  back  to  me? 

(She  goes  and  looks  at  the  children  and  sees  that  they  are 
asleep) 

Oh,  man  of  the  road,  is  your  heart  content? 
Will  'e  never  come  back  to  me? 

(While  she  sings,  the  firelight  dies  down  and  the  light  of  the 

candle  loses  its  warmth.     Outside  is  a  sound  of  rising  wind, 

and  the  soft  lash  of  snow  against  the  pane.     She  goes  and 

looks  out  of  window) 

Ah,  there  be  storm,  black  blast  with  icy  breath! 

The  night's  gone  colder  now,  aye  cold  like  death, 

Cold! 

(She  shivers  —  three  knocks  are  struck  on  the  door) 

Who  be  there?     Who  is  it?     Whence  do  'e  come? 

(Another  knock,  very  faint) 

Have  you  no  word?    What,  are  ye  deaf  and  dumb?   Or  — 

dead? 
(Knock.     The  light  burns  blue.     She  opens  the  door.     Pause. 
Slowly  the  snow  man  enters  and  moves  across  the  room  to- 
ward the  bed) 

No,  stop!     Not  there,  not  there! 

[She  interposes  and  lays  hold  of  him.     A  cold  rigour  seizes 
Iter. 


THE  SNOW  MAN  257 

snow  man.     Why  do  you  touch  me? 

joan.     Why  do  you  come  here?     Who  are  you?     Answer! 

{He  again  moves  forward)     No,  you  don't  go  there!     You 

shan't,  you  shan't  come  nigh  of  'em. 
snow  man.     Take  care !     My  touch  is  —  cold ! 
joan.     You  think  I'm  feard  o'  that? 

You  think  them  eyes  as  I  be  looking  at 

Have  any  fear  for  me,  or  shape  of  dread? 

Worse  that  what  life  'ave? 

{With  a  sort  of  exultation) 

Why,  if  I  were  dead! 

[Pause.     The  snow  man  lifts  his  hand  and  points  toward 

the  bed.     Joan  sees  his  meaning. 
snow  man.     If  you  were  dead? 
joan.     No,  no,  I  say  you  lie! 

My  little  'uns?     God  wouldn't  let  'em  die. 

'A  wouldn't  have  the  heart,  'a  wouldn't  have  the  heart. 
snow  man.     Yet  there's  a  heart, 
Now  quick  to  beat, 

Which,  this  same  night, 
Must  lose  its  heat. 

To  give  strength  to  a  lame  man's  feet. 
joan.     A  lame  man? 
snow  man.     Gray-headed,  bent, 

He  scarce  can  go, 

His  strength  is  spent 

In  drifts  of  snow, 

And  all  the  icy  blasts  that  blow. 
joan.     I  don't  know  who  you  mean. 
snow  man.     Give  me  your  hand, 

And  you  shall  see, 

Here,  close  at  hand,  snow-bound  goes  he. 

Give  me  your  hand, 

And  come  with  me. 
joan.     With  you?     Why  do  you  think  I'd  come  with  you? 

I've  got  my  children,  I've  a  husband,  too, 

One  as  I  love. 


258  THE  SNOW  MAN 


snow  man.     And  he  —  does  he  love  you  ? 
joan.     That's  no  concern  o' yo urn! 

Aye,  a'  did  once,  Aye!  and  a'  will  again, 

Some  day,  perhaps.     When  he  first  married  me, 

'A  did,  —  'a  did !     We've  sat  here  in  this  room 

A-kissing  by  the  hour!     That  were  before 

The  children  come.     Children  do  make  a  house 

No  comfort  to  a  man.     He  had  his  right 

To  go.     He  didn't  want  'em,  but  I  did! 

I  did! 

Aye!  and  I've  'ad  'em  now  a  whole  seven  years, 

Worked  for  'em,  I  lived  for  'em,  starved  for  'em, 

And  I'd  die 

So  it  could  better  'em. 
snow  man.     And  what  —  for  him? 
joan.     I've  broke  my  'eart  for  'im;  it's  past  its  work, 

And  now  it  ain't  no  use  —  no  use  —  to  'im. 
snow  man.     Its  use  has  come.     Oh,  woman,  give 

Your  heart  to  me,  I'll  make  it  live. 

And  what  you  lend  he  shall  receive. 
joan.     You  can't.     You  can't  do  that 

You  can't  raise  up  the  sun  when  once  it's  set; 

You  can't  put  new  roots  in  us,  when  we're  old, 

Dried  up,  and  withered. 
snow  man.     Within  kind  earth 

Dry  seed  goes  sown 

And  springs  again  to  birth. 
joan.     I've  'ad  enough  of  earth.     I've  sowed,  I've  reaped, 

I've  gathered,  and  I've  strawed.     But  me  and  'im 

We  won't  meet  any  more.     He  'aven't  come, 

Nigh  me  —  not  for  a  year. 

And  when  he  did  come  back  —  he  went  again 

Next  day. 
snow  man.     Went?     Where? 
joan.     Nowhere.     He  roves  about.     Seeing   the  world,   'e 

calls  it.     Roving  blood.     That's  been  'is  curse;  and  mind, 

'is  roving  blood,  it  haven't  always  roved.     He  liked  his 


THE   SNOW   MAN  259 


ease,  he  liked  the  victuals  I  give  him  well  enough,  he  liked 
his  fireside,  and  he  liked  his  bed  when  I  was  by  'im.  Ah! 
And  then  one  day  he'd  'ad  enough  of  comfort,  and  was 
off,  —  looking  for  what?  'Ardship?  He  might  have  'ad 
that  'ere  if  he'd  but  stayed.  Aye,  that  'e  could  —  for  it's 
been  'ard  enough  —  with  they  two  there.  Ah,  you  may 
look  at  'em,  they  'aven't  known  trouble  — yet  they  was  with 
me  all  the  time.  Why,  there' ve  been  days  when  I've  not 
'ad  enough  to  eat  myself.  And  what  'ave  fed  me?  Just 
to  'ear  'em  laugh  and  think  they  'aven't  known.  What  do 
you  look  at  me  like  that  for?  What  do  you  know?  What 
did  you  come  for?     Say! 

snow  man.     To  bring  you  comfort. 

joan.  Comfort?  I've  got  no  place  for  comfort  in  me  now. 
It  isn't  that  I  want  —  it's  rest. 

snow  man.     'Tis  rest  I  bring. 

joan.     Where's  'e? 

snowman.     Here  —  near  at  hand.     Come,  come  and  do  not 
be  afraid. 
[He  takes  her  hand. 

joan.  Oh,  dearie  me.  This  feels  like  death.  Like  death! 
[As  they  touch  hands  a  mist  draws  over  the  stage,  the  walls  of 
the  house  seem  to  fade  away,  the  sound  of  the  storm  grows  loud 
around  them.  They  stand  in  a  white  world  full  of  obscure 
movement  and  pale  drifting  forms. 

snow  man.     WThat  do  you  see? 

joan.     A  waste  of  snow. 

snow  man.     Anyone  there? 

joan.  No  one  I  know.  No  —  only  you.  What?  You  say 
you  saw  him  on  the  road,  coming?  How  do  you  know 
that   it  was   'im?     Yes  —  yes  —  'e  was   like  that.     But 

younger,  'andsomer  than  that,  —  not  lame 

No,  he  was  never  lame  —  a  young,  young  man, 

And  strong! 

Oh,  lost  his  way?     You  say  'e'd  lost  his  way? 
Well,  maybe  that  might  tire  'im  just  a  bit, 
But  oh,  e'd  find  it!     Oh,  trust  him  for  that! 


260  THE  SNOW  MAN 

He's  been  all  round  the  world  —  and  lost  his  way 
Through  coming  'ome.     Yes,  yes,  he's  coming  'ome. 
Ah!     Now  I  see  'im.     Yes,  I'm  'ere,  I'm  'ere! 
Waiting  for  yer,  —  waiting  —  expecting  yer. 
Ah,  never  mind.     Though  yer  don't  love  me,  still 
It's  back  to  me  you  come !     Yer  can't  'elp  that 
That's  'ow  God  made  yer.     That's  why  He  made  me. 
No !     I  can't  reach  yer.     No,  he's  got  my  hand, 
Holding  it,  holding  it,  —  and  won't  leave  go! 
I'd  'elp  yer,  if  I  could.     I'd  die  for  yer! 
But  he  won't  let  me  go. 

I'm  cold,  I'm  cold! 

Can't  see!  —  I've  lost  my  way, 
And  I  shan't  —  never  —  any  more  come  home! 
[The  snow  man  looses  her  hand,  and  she  falls.     The  mist 
clears  from  a  dark  stage,  the  walls  close  in  again,  the  chamber 
remains  in  darkness.     A  figure  stumbles  past  the  window, 
the  door  is  thrown  open,  the  Snow  man  stands  aside.     Enter 
J  as  par. 
jaspar.     Home!     Home,  at  last!     Who's  there?     Anyone 
there? 
What?    Nobody?    No  fire?    Oh,  bitter  cold it  feels 

(Fumbles  for  match-box) 

Here,  fool,  give  me  a  light! 

Light,  can't  yer?     Ah,  what's  that,  what's  that,  what's 

that? 

Who  are  yer?     What  for  are  you  lying  there? 

Get  up!    Get  up!   What  makes  'e  be  so  cold? 

So  clammed?  /0,  .,         ..  7  ,N 

{Strikes  a  light) 

What  the  —  !     My  wife!     It  be  my  wife! 

Wife!     Don't  'e  hear  me?     It  be  I,  come  back, 

Jaspar  come  back  —  Jaspar  come  home  again 

Jaspar  —  why  don't  'e  answer?     There,  now  there! 

Have  that  to  warm  yer.     Oh,  ye'll  soon  come  round, 

Ye've  starved  yourself,  ye  — !    Ah  —  she's  dead,  she's  dead ! 

(He  lifts  her  onto  the  chair  by  the  hearth  and  now  holds  the 


THE  SNOW   MAN  261 

candle  to  her  face,  then  draws  away  with  a  growing  fear  of 
what  other  deaths  may  be  there.  He  advances  to  the  crib, 
and  looks  in  on  the  sleeping  children.  He  assures  himself 
that  they  are  alive.  It  startles  him  to  fresh  hope;  he  turns 
back  to  his  wife) 

No,  she  ain't  dead,  she  can't  be,  they're  alive! 
She  wouldn't  leave  'em.     No,  she  can't  be  dead. 
Wife,  do  'e  hear?     The  children  be  alive. 

You  wouldn't  go  and  leave  'em,  no,  not  you 

'T wouldn't  be  like  yer.    There,  my  —  there,  come,  come! 
Take  warmth  o'  me,  —  out  of  my  'eart  and  soul ! 
I'll  make  ye  warm. 

{He  takes  her  to  his  heart) 
Why,  I  was  coming  'once. 
I'd  'a  been  yere  before,  but  I  lost  my  way, 
Got  buried  in  the  snow.     Then  I  'eard  you 
A-callin'  me !     I  thought  I  saw  your  face, 
Then  it  all  went,  and  then,  my  feet  grew  strong, 
Life  come  to  me,  and  warmth,  and  here  I  be  ! 
Can't  'e  speak  to  me?     Be  ye  gone  so  far 
As  'e  can't  'ear  me?     Not  the  word  I'd  say 
To  tell  'e  how  I  loved  'e? 
Ah,  now  I  be  in  'ell,  I  be  in  'ell! 
And  'a  won't  never  know. 

{Her  hand  falls  out  across  chair,  pointing  toward  the  crib) 
What's  that  to  say? 
Oh,  the  dear  hand.     Yes,  I'll  look  after  'em. 

They  shan't  know  want  —  and  I  won't  go  away 

The  way  I'd  wish  to  go.     I'll  bear  my  life 
And  all  the  burden  of  it.     There,  there,  my  lass, 
Rest  ye  in  peace,  I'll  do  my  best  by  'em! 
I'll  do  my  best. 

[He  bends  and  kisses  her  on  the  lips.     The  Snow  man  makes 
a  pass  toward  her  with  his  hand.     She  moves,  and  opens  her 
eyes,  all  dazed  and  dreaming. 
joan.     W7ho's  that,  who's  that  got  hold  o'  me?    Let  go!    I 
must  go  to  'im. 


262  THE  SNOW  MAN 

jaspar.     No,  no,  bide  'e  still.     Here's  Jaspar! 

joan.     Jaspar! 

jaspar.     Oh,  you  be  alive ! 

[He  sinks  down  broken,  with  his  head  on  her  breast.  She 
takes  his  head  in  her  hands  stroking  it  softly.  The  Snow  man 
moves  slowly  to  the  door,  fades  through  it,  and  disappears. 

joan.     So  you've  come  back,  I  knew  you'd  come  —  some 
day.    What's  this? 
[She  touches  the  coat. 

jaspar.  My  coat.  I  found  you  lyin'  there  cold,  so  I  put  it 
around  yer.  But  you  made  no  sign  —  until  I  thought  as 
yer  was  dead. 

joan.    Dead?    Would  I  leave  'em?    Leave  my  little  'uns? 

jaspar.  Ah,  there  you  do  get  home.  It's  a  true  charge. 
It's  what  I  done. 

joan.     You  'ad  the  roving  blood.     You  couldn't  'elp  it. 

jaspar.     It  ain't  brought  me  no  joy. 

joan.     Jaspar,  I  think  you've  come  here  in  a  dream 
Put  your  arms  round  me  and  'old  me.     Don't  let  go. 
Help  me  to  dream,  I'd  like  for  it  to  last 
Just  one  more  hour  —  put  your  'ead  on  my  heart. 
And  don't  you  speak  —  don't  speak  —  I  want  to  dream, 
You  be  come  back  again!     I  want  to  dream. 
[They  lie  still  in  each  other's  arms.     Dawn  light  begins  to 
creep  in.     A  sound  of  sliding  snow  is  heard  on  the  roof,  a 
sharp  twittering  of  birds;  down  across  the  window  masses  of 
snowfall  in  soft  thunder.     There  follows  a  sound  of  dropping 
water:  the  thaw  has  begun.       The  outer  world  grows  radiant 
with  light.     The  doors  of  the  cubby-bed  fly  open,  the  two  chil- 
dren peep  out.     A  soft  but  heavy  crash  of  falling  snow  is 
heard.     It  strikes  the  door. 

mart.  Mother,  what's  that?  Get  up,  get  up,  it's  light! 
(Jumps  out  of  bed,  followed  by  Matthew)  Oh,  come  and 
look!  The  snow's  all  falling — right  down  off  the  roof. 
Look  how  it's  letting  go ! 

matthew.  Oh,  the  snow  man.  Look  at  the  snow  man! 
Oh !     [Opens  door. 


THE  SNOW  MAN  263 

mary.     Mother,  the  snow  man's  tumbled  in  the  night. 

[Joan  opens  her  eyes. 
joan.     Hush,  hush,  don't  wake  'im.     Come  'e  and  look  'ere. 

[The  children  approach  softly,  curious  and  surprised. 
mary.     Who  is  it,  mother? 
joan.     The  snow  man,  my  dear.     He's  come  to  stay. 

CURTAIN 


FANCY  FREE 

STANLEY  HOUGHTON 

William  Stanley  Houghton  was  born  at  Ashton-upon- 
Mersey  in  1881.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  entered  his 
father's  law  office  in  Manchester,  where  he  worked  until 
1912.  That  year  he  witnessed  the  successful  production  of 
his  "Hindle  Wakes",  a  play  which  was  later  performed  in 
London  and  throughout  the  United  States.  From  1912 
until  the  end  of  his  short  life,  he  devoted  all  his  time  to 
the  writing  of  plays.  Early  in  1913  he  went  to  Paris,  fell 
ill,  recovered,  and  returned  to  London  in  June  of  the 
same  year.  He  soon  left  England  once  again,  on  his  way 
to  Venice.  From  Italy,  after  an  attack  of  influenza  and 
appendicitis,  he  was  brought  to  Manchester,  where  he  died 
in  December. 

At  the  time  of  his  death,  Stanley  Houghton  was  perhaps 
the  best  known  dramatist  of  the  so-called  "Manchester 
School."  "Hindle  Wakes"  is  without  doubt  his  best  play, 
but  in  his  short  dramas  and  comedies  he  attempted  — 
and  in  the  best  of  them  successfully  —  to  portray  with 
exactitude  and  sympathy  the  characters  of  his  native 
Lancashire. 

The  one-act  plays  were,  fortunately,  not  intended  merely 
as  curtain  raisers:  they  were  written  as  independent  works, 
and  not  in  order  to  amuse  the  pit  before  the  stalls  are  filled. 
The  Manchester  dramatists  were  encouraged  to  develop  the 
one-act  form,  not  to  regard  it  as  a  convenient  repository 
for  material  otherwise  not  suitable  for  use. 


266  FANCY  FREE 


PLAYS 

*The  Dear  Departed  (1908)  *The    Fifth    Commandment 

Independent  Means  (1909)  (1913) 

*The  Master  of  the   House  Trust  the  People  (1913) 

(1910)  *The  Old  Testament  and  the 

The    Younger    Generation  New  (1914) 

(1910)  Partners  (1914) 

*Fancy  Free  (1911)  Marriages   in   the    Making 

Hindle  Wakes  (1912)  (1914) 

*Pearls  (1912)  The  Hillarys  (1915) 

*Phipps  (1912)  (In   collaboration  with 

The  Perfect  Cure  (1913)  Harold  Brighouse) 

Ginger  (1913) 

"The  Dear  Departed",  "The  Master  of  the  House", 
"Fancy  Free",  "Phipps",  and  "The  Fifth  Commandment" 
are  published  as  "Five  One- Act  Plays",  by  Samuel  French, 
New  York;  "Independent  Means",  "The  Younger  Genera- 
tion", and  "Hindle  Wakes",  separately,  by  the  same;  all 
the  plays,  except  "Trust  the  People",  "Ginger",  "Pearls", 
and  "The  Hillarys  ",  are  included  in  "The  Works  of  Stanley 
Houghton",  3  volumes,  Constable  and  Company,  London. 

References:  Harold  Brighouse,  Introduction  to  "The 
Works  of  Stanley  Houghton",  Constable  and  Company, 
London;  Gerald  Cumberland,  "Set  Down  in  Malice",  Bren- 
tano's,  New  York. 

Magazines:  The  Bookman,  vol.  xxxvi,  p.  641,  New  York; 
Manchester  Playgoer,  vol.  xi,  No.  1;  Manchester  Quarterly, 
vol.  xxxiii,  p.  213;  The  Living  Age,  vol.  cclxxx,  p.  413,  Boston; 
McClure's,  vol.  xl,  p.  69,  New  York. 


FANCY  FREE 


By  STANLEY  HOUGHTON 


"Fancy  Free"  was  first  produced  at  London  in  1912. 

Characters 

Fancy 
Alfred 
Ethelbert 
Delia 

The  Scene  represents  the  writing-room  of  the  Hotel  Cos- 
mopolitan, Baby  Ion  -on-Sea. 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Samuel  French,  Limited 

All  rights  reserved 

Reprinted  from  "Five  One-Act  Plays",  by  permission  of  Samuel  French,  Pub- 
lisher, New  York.  .         . 

"All  inquiries  respecting  the  performance  of  any  play  contained  in  this  volume 
must  be  addressed  to  Samuel  French,  28  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City,  U.  S.  A. 


FANCY  FREE 

The  writing-room  of  the  Hotel  Cosmopolitan  is  a  tall,  hand- 
some apartment,  exquisitely  furnished.  The  great  fireplace  faces 
the  spectator,  with  a  lounge  chair  on  each  side.  Near  him,  on 
his  left,  is  a  double  writing-table  containing  two  desks  opposite 
one  another.  Chairs  face  each  desk.  Still  further  left  is  a 
settee  against  the  wall.  On  his  right  a  settee  placed  at  right 
angles  to  the  wall,  a  small  low  table,  and  a  low  padded  armchair. 
There  is  another  writing-table  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace,  and 
a  book-case  on  the  left.  The  two  entrances,  each  with  double 
doors,  are  set  diagonally  across  the  two  visible  corners  of  the 
room,  one  right  and  one  left. 

The  fire  is  burning,  and  the  electric  lights  are  on.  It  is  a 
little  after  ten  o'clock. 

Fancy,  in  an  evening  gown,  is  sitting  on  the  right  hand  of 
the  double  desk,  trying  to  compose  a  letter.     She  is  petite,  dark 
and  pretty.     Alfred  comes  in  from  the  left  in  evening  dress.  He 
is  tall,  fair,  clean-shaven  and  handsome. 
fancy  {looking  up).     Well? 
Alfred.     I  find  that  the  last  post  goes  at  midnight.     It  is 

now  exactly  a  quarter-past  ten. 
fancy.     Then  I  have  still  an  hour  and  three-quarters  in 

which  to  finish  the  letter. 

[Alfred  kneels  on  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  double  desk 

and  watches  Fancy. 
Alfred.     I  am  disappointed  in  you,  Fancy.     I  knew  that 

I  should  be  disappointed  in  you  some  day,  but  I  did  not 

expect  it  to  come  so  soon. 
fancy.     My  dear  Alfred,  pray  do  not  forget  that  this  is  no 

ordinary  letter. 
Alfred.     It  ought  not  to  be  so  difficult  to  tell  one's  husband 

that  one  has  run  away  from  him. 


270  FANCY  FREE 


fancy.     But  I  have  had  so  little  experience.     I  daresay  I 

shall  improve  with  practice. 
Alfred.     How  far  have  you  got? 

fancy.     I'll  read  it  to  you.     "Darling  Ethelbert " 

Alfred.     Stop!     Ought  you  to  call  him  darling  now? 
fancy.     Why  not? 

Alfred.     A  sensitive  mind  might  detect  something  inappro- 
priate in  the  adjective. 
fancy.     I  always  call  him  darling  when  I  write  to  him.     I 
feel  sure  he  would  feel  hurt  if  I  omitted  to  do  so  on  this 
occasion.     Besides,  I  am  still  very  fond  of  him. 
Alfred.     Perhaps  you  are  right.     We  cannot  too  scrupu- 
lously avoid  wounding  him. 
fancy  {reading).     "Darling  Ethelbert, 

"You  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  since  you  went  to 
Scotland  on  Thursday  last  I  have  decided  to  run  away 
with  Alfred.  You  cannot  have  forgotten  the  promises 
we  made  each  other  on  our  wedding-day.  I  am  not  re- 
ferring to  those  we  made  publicly  during  the  marriage 
ceremony,  but  to  our  private  understanding  that  each 
should  be  entirely  free  and  untrammelled  provided  that 
the  other's  health  and  comfort  was  not  interfered  with. 
You  will  understand,  therefore,  that  in  leaving  you  and 
going  away  with  Alfred  I  am  doing  nothing  that  is  con- 
trary to  our  agreement.  You  would  have  been  entitled 
to  complain  only  if  I  had  insisted  on  bringing  Alfred 
home  with  me." 
That's  logic,  isn't  it? 
Alfred.  Yes.  Feminine  logic. 
fancy.     That  is  all  Ethelbert  has  any  right  to  expect  from 

me. 
Alfred.     How  do  you  proceed? 
fancy.     I  don't.     That  is  the  difficulty. 
Alfred.     At  any  rate,  Fancy,  you  have  made  it  clear  to 
Ethelbert  that  you  have  left  him.     That  is  all  that  is 
essential.     You  have  only  to  wind  up  now. 
fancy.     How?     "Yours  faithfully"? 


FANCY  FREE  271 


Alfred.     Why  not  "Yours  formerly"? 

fancy.  But  I  am  afraid  that  is  too  abrupt.  Ethelbert  is 
so  sensitive.  I  should  like  to  wind  up  with  something 
kind. 

Alfred.  Let  me  see.  "You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  we 
are  having  an  awfully  jolly  time  here." 

fancy.     I  doubt  whether  Ethelbert  would  be  glad  to  hear  it. 

Alfred.  Then  something  chatty  or  discursive.  "The  Cos- 
mopolitan is  an  exceedingly  nice  hotel.  It  contains  no 
fewer  than  250  bedrooms,  each  elaborately  furnished  with 
all  modern  conveniences." 

fancy.  Ethelbert  will  hardly  care  for  such  details.  Besides, 
I  do  not  consider  that  the  Cosmopolitan  is  such  a  nice 
hotel. 

Alfred.  It  is  an  exceedingly  expensive  one.  Let  us  en- 
deavour to  extract  as  much  enjoyment  out  of  it  as  possible. 

fancy.  I  am  sure  that  I  should  have  preferred  the  Grand 
Rendevous. 

Alfred.  The  Grand  Rendevous  is,  if  possible,  still  more  ex- 
pensive. 

fancy.     What  does  that  matter? 

Alfred.  To  you,  little  or  nothing.  It  is  I  who  have  to  pay 
the  bill. 

fancy.     Alfred,  you  have  the  soul  of  a  stockbroker. 

Alfred.     Do  not  flatter  me.     I  have  sometimes  hoped  I  had. 

fancy.  If  I  had  realized  how  useless  you  would  be  in  an 
emergency,  I  doubt  whether  I  should  have  run  away  with 
you. 

Alfred.  My  dear  Fancy,  I  did  not  run  away  with  you  in 
order  to  conduct  your  correspondence.  You  should  have 
advertised  for  a  private  secretary.  I  had  hoped  to  be 
something  more  to  you  than  that. 

fancy  (rising).  I  shall  go  to  my  room.  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible for  me  to  finish  this  letter  here. 

Alfred.     Wrhy? 

fancy.     This  room  is  far  too  crowded. 

Alfred.     This  is  not  a  quarrel,  I  trust,  Fancy. 


272  FANCY  FREE 


fancy.     Certainly  not.     I  hope  I  have  too  much  tact  to 

quarrel  with  you  on  the  first  day  of  our  elopement. 

[Fancy  goes  to  the  door  with  her  letter. 
Alfred.     When  may  I  expect  to  see  you  again? 
fancy.     The  last  post  goes  at  midnight. 

[Fancy  goes  out  left.     Hardly  has  she  gone  than  Ethelbert 

comes  in  right.     He  is  a  good-looking,  dark  man,  in  evening 

dress. 
alfred  (thunderstruck).     Ethelbert! 
ethelbert.     Alfred! 
Alfred.     My  dear  fellow. 
ethelbert.     How  are  you,  old  chap? 
Alfred.     What  brings  you  here?     I  understood  you  were 

travelling  on  business. 
ethelbert.     So  I  am.     Extremely  private  business. 
Alfred.     How  singular  that  we  should  meet! 
ethelbert.     Are  you  here  on  business  too? 
Alfred.     Er  —  yes.     Extremely  private  business  also. 
ethelbert.     Come.     Let  us  sit  down  and  talk. 

[He  sits  in  the  armchair  right  of  the  fire. 
Alfred.     With  pleasure.     But  do  not  let  us  talk  here. 

ETHELBERT.       Why  not? 

alfred.     This  is  an  exceedingly  dull  room. 

ethelbert.     It  is  a  very  charming  room. 

alfred.     But  I  assure  you,  I  have  been  here  quite  half  an 

hour,  and  nothing  whatever  has  happened. 
ethelbert.     Then  we  can  talk  the  more  comfortably. 

[Alfred  sits  down  reluctantly. 
alfred.     Where  were  you  going  when  you  came  in  here? 
ethelbert.     I  was  looking  for  the  American  Bar. 
alfred.     Excellent !     We  will  go  and  look  for  it  together. 

[He  rises. 
ethelbert.     Presently.     There  is  no  hurry. 

[Alfred  sits  down. 
alfred  (yawning).     Do  you  know,  Ethelbert,  I  feel  I  ought 

to  be  getting  to  bed. 
ethelbert.     Bed?     Why,  it  is  only  half -past  ten. 


FANCY  FREE  273 


Alfred.     I   promised   my    mother,    before   she   died,    that 

whenever  practicable  I  would  be  in  bed  by  half-past  ten. 
ethelbert.     But  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Fancy. 
Alfred.     About  Fancy!     Do  you  think  you  ought  to  talk 

to  me  about  Fancy?     The  relations  of  a  husband  and  wife 

should  be  sacred,  surely. 
ethelbert.     I  want  to  ask  your  advice,  Alfred.     I  have 

begun  to  suspect  that  Fancy  is  growing  tired  of  me. 
Alfred  (looking  at  his  ivatch).     I  must  positively  be  in  bed 

before  half-past  ten  o'clock 

ethelbert.     Why  does  a  woman  grow  tired  of  a  man? 
Alfred.     Because  the  last  post  goes  at  midnight. 
ethelbert.     No.     Because  she  prefers  somebody  else. 
Alfred  (interested).     Do  you  suspect  that  Fancy  is  in  love 

with  somebody  else? 

ETHELBERT.       I  do. 

ALFRED.     Who  is  he? 

ethelbert.     I  have  no  idea.     I  wish  I  had. 

Alfred.  Don't  you  think  you  will  be  much  happier  if  you 
remain  in  ignorance? 

ethelbert.  Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself.  I  am  think- 
ing of  him. 

Alfred.     Indeed. 

ethelbert.     Yes.     I  should  like  to  warn  him. 

Alfred.     To  warn  him? 

ethelbert.  I'm  afraid  she'll  be  running  away  with  the  poor 
fellow. 

Alfred  (uneasily).     Why  do  you  call  him  a  poor  fellow? 

ethelbert.  Fancy  is  so  terribly  extravagant.  She  spends 
money  like  water,  especially  when  it  is  not  her  own. 

Alfred  (unthinkingly).     Have  you  found  that  out,  too? 

ethelbert.  Of  course  I've  found  it  out,  and  so  would  you 
if  you  had  been  married  to  her  as  long  as  I  have.  Can- 
didly, I'm  afraid  Fancy  will  ruin  the  poor  fellow. 

Alfred.     What  has  that  to  do  with  you? 

ethelbert.  I  hope  I  am  a  humane  person,  Alfred.  I  would 
not  willingly  see  my  worst  enemy  reduced  to  the  work- 


274  FANCY  FREE 


house,  and  this  poor  fellow  may  be  one  of  my  friends.  I 
should  be  intensely  sorry  if  one  of  my  friends  ruined  him- 
self for  the  sake  of  my  wife.  I  can  assure  you  that  she  is 
not  worth  it.     In  my  experience,  very  few  women  are. 

Alfred.  Ethelbert,  forgive  me  if  I  point  out  that  you  are 
not  looking  at  this  affair  in  the  proper  way. 

ethelbert.  Indeed?  In  what  way  do  you  consider  that 
I  ought  to  look  at  it? 

Alfred.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not  indignant 
at  the  idea  of  another  man  eloping  with  your  wife? 

ethelbert.     Not  in  the  least. 

Alfred  {warmly).     Then  you  ought  to  be,  that's  all. 

ethelbert.  When  I  married  Fancy  we  arranged  to  leave 
each  other  absolutely  free.  I  am  a  gentleman,  Alfred; 
you  would  not  have  me  break  my  word. 

Alfred.  But  it  is  quite  inconceivable!  You  are  without 
any  sense  of  moral  responsibility.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself. 

ethelbert.     I  very  often  am.     Aren't  you? 

Alfred.  Certainly  not.  I  regulate  my  life,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  by  a  strict  rule  of  conduct,  which  I  observe  as 
closely  as  possible.  If  I  have  lapses,  so  much  the  worse. 
They  are  regrettable,  but  not  unnatural.  At  any  rate,  I 
have  the  immense  consolation  of  knowing  that  my  prin- 
ciples are  not  lax,  but  that  I  have  merely  failed  to  adhere 
to  them  for  once  in  a  way. 

ethelbert.  Believe  me,  Alfred,  it  is  a  mistake  to  have  too 
many  principles. 

Alfred.     Why? 

ethelbert.  Because  if  you  have  too  many  it  is  quite  im- 
possible to  stick  to  them  all.  I  content  myself  with  one 
only. 

Alfred.     What  is  that? 

ethelbert.  Never  be  a  hypocrite.  It  is  an  excellent  maxim. 
It  permits  you  to  do  whatever  you  please,  provided  you 
don't  pretend  you  are  not  doing  it.  I  advise  you  to  adopt 
it  and  to  drop  all  your  other  principles. 


FANCY  FREE  275 


Alfred.     Do  you  insinuate  that  I  am  a  hypocrite? 

ETH ELBERT.       Not  at  all. 

Alfred.     Then  you  are  wrong.     I  am. 

ETii elbert.    Really?    You  grow  more  interesting  every  day. 

Alfred.  Please  do  not  flatter  me.  I  am  conscious  that  I 
do  not  deserve  it.  Ethelbert,  your  deplorable  views 
about  morality  have  awakened  my  conscience.  I  must 
conceal  the  truth  from  you  no  longer.  Besides,  I  think 
it  is  extremely  probable  that  you  would  have  found  it  out 
in  any  case  very  shortly. 

ethelbert.     What  do  you  mean? 

Alfred.  I  knew,  all  the  time,  that  Fancy  was  in  love  with 
another  man. 

ETHELBERT.       How? 

Alfred.     Because  I  am  that  other  man. 

ethelbert.     You  don't  say  so !     Permit  me  to  offer  you  my 

sincere  condolences. 
Alfred.     Thank  you. 

[They  shake  hands  gravely. 
ethelbert.     How  fortunate  that  I  should  be  able  to  warn 

you  before  it  is  too  late! 
Alfred.     Ethelbert,  you  must  know  all.     It  is  too  late.     I 

have  already  run  away  with  your  wife. 
ethelbert.     Already!     When  did  it  happen? 
Alfred.     This  morning. 

ethelbert.     This  morning?     Then 

Alfred.     Yes.     You  are  right.     Fancy  is  actually  in  this 

hotel  at  the  present  moment. 
ethelbert.     Upon  my  soul,  Alfred,  this  is  most  unfriendly 

of  you. 
Alfred.     Go  on.     I  am  conscious  that  I  merit  all  your  re- 
proaches. 
ethelbert.     I  call  it  grossly  indelicate  to  bring  Fancy  to 

the  very  hotel  in  which  I  am  staying. 
Alfred.     But,  hang  it  all,  we  did  not  know  that  you  were 

staying  here.     You  don't  suppose  we  chose  it  for  that 

reason,  do  you?     Wre  thought  you  were  in  Scotland. 


276  FANCY  FREE 


ethelbert.     Ah,   true.     I   did   go   to   Scotland.     I   spoke 

without  reflecting.     I  beg  your  pardon,  Alfred. 
Alfred  {politely).     Not  at  all. 

[A  pause. 
ethelbert.     Well,  and  how  do  you  get  on  with  Fancy? 
Alfred.     I  hardly  think  I  am  justified  in  venturing  upon  an 

opinion  upon  such  a  slight  acquaintance. 
ethelbert.     I  wonder  if  I  may  presume  to  offer  you  some 

advice? 
Alfred.     By  all  means. 
ethelbert.     If   you    are   going   to   succeed    in    managing 

Fancy,  you  will  have  to  put  your  foot  down  at  once. 
Alfred.     Put  my  foot  down? 
ethelbert.     How  much  have  you  spent  to-day? 
Alfred.     About  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

ETHELBERT.       I  thought  SO. 

Alfred.     Fancy  bought  a  motor-car  this  afternoon. 

ethelbert.     She  will  buy  another  to-morrow. 

Alfred.     But  I  can't  afford  it.     How  did  you  succeed  in 

curbing  her  extravagance? 
ethelbert.     I  threatened  to  advertise  in  the  papers  that  I 

should  not  be  responsible  for  any  debts  contracted  by  my 

wife. 
Alfred.     Since  she  is  not  my  wife  I  can  hardly  do  that, 

can  I? 
ethelbert.     You   might   advertise   that   you   will   not   be 

responsible  for  any  debts  contracted  by  my  wife. 
Alfred.     Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  little  pointed? 
ethelbert.     Perhaps  it  would. 
Alfred.     No,  Ethelbert,  there  is  only  one  way  out  of  the 

difficulty.     I  will  resign  Fancy  to  you. 
ethelbert.     Not  on  any  account. 
Alfred  (rising).     Yes.     I  cannot  allow  you  to  outbid  me  in 

generosity.     I  will  go  and  find  her  and  bring  her  to  you. 
ethelbert  (rising).     For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  tell  my  wife 

I  am  staying  here. 
Alfred.     Why  not? 


FANCY  FREE  277 


ethelbert.     Because  I  am  not  alone. 
Alfred.     Not  alone? 
ethelbert.     Her  name  is  Delia. 
Alfred  {indignantly).     Ethelbert! 
ethelbert.     Well,  Alfred? 
Alfred.     You  shock  me,  gravely. 

ethelbert.     You   are   very    thin-skinned.     Have   you   al- 
ready   forgotten    what     errand     brought     you     to     this 

hotel? 
Alfred  (with  dignity).     There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 

make  my  lapse  an  excuse  for  your  own.     Have  you  thought 

of  your  wife? 
ethelbert.     She  need  never  know,  unless  you  tell  her. 
Alfred.     I  thought  you  said  that  Fancy  and  you  agreed  to 

leave  each  other  entirely  free. 
ethelbert.     We  gave  each  other  our  word  of  honour. 
Alfred.     Then  why  do  you  wish  to  hide  the  truth  from 

her? 
ethelbert.     Fancy  is  not  a  gentleman.     She  is  a  woman. 

She  does  not  understand  the  meaning  of  honour. 
Alfred.     You  are  trifling.     I  regret  to  say,  Ethelbert,  that 

I  shall  consider  it  my  duty  to  inform  your  wife  immediately 

of  the  whole  deplorable  business. 
ethelbert.     So  be  it.     Far  be  it  from  me  to  try  and  induce 

you  to  act  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  your  conscience. 

[Fancy  comes  in  left,  with  a  letter. 
fancy.     Ethelbert! 
ethelbert.     Fancy! 
fancy.     How  fortunate!     I  can  give  you  this  letter  now. 

That  will  save  a  penny  stamp. 
ethelbert.     Thank  you.     I  will  destroy  the  letter. 

[He  tears  it  and  throws  it  in  the  fire. 
fancy.     Oh,  why  did  you  do  that?     It  took  me  such  a  long 

time  to  write. 
ethelbert.     I  am  already  aware  of  its  contents. 
fancy.     You  have  told  him,  Alfred? 
Alfred.     Yes. 


278  FANCY   FREE 


fancy.     Then,  Ethelbert,  may  I  ask  what  you  are  doing 

here?     I  consider  it  grossly  indelicate  of  you  to  follow  us 

about  like  this.     You  wouldn't  like  it  yourself. 
Alfred.     Ethelbert  has  not  followed  us.     He  has  come  here 

for  a  reason  of  his  own. 
fancy.     A  reason  of  his  own? 
Alfred.     Yes.     How  can  I  tell  you?     (A  pause)     Her  name 

is  Delia. 
fancy.     Oh!     Oh!     Ethelbert,  how  dare  you? 
ethelbert.     My  dear  Fancy,  you  remember  what  we  ar- 
ranged. 
fancy.     I  don't  care  what  we  arranged.     You  have  had 

the  bad  taste  to  prefer  another  woman  to  me.     I  shall 

never  forgive  you. 
ethelbert.     But,  Fancy,  listen. 
fancy.     I  shall  not  listen.     I  don't  want  to  hear  a  single 

word  about  her.     Where  did  you  meet  her? 
ethelbert.     She  was  staying  at  my  hotel  in  Edinburgh. 
fancy.     That  was  no  reason  why  you  should  have  spoken 

to  her. 
ethelbert.     I  didn't.     She  spoke  to  me.     We  were  sitting 

at  adjoining  tables  in  the  Winter  Garden. 
fancy.     She  dropped  a  glove?     A  handkerchief? 
ethelbert.     How  did  you  know  that? 
fancy.     Never  mind. 
ethelbert.     Of  course  I  picked  it  up. 
fancy.     And  what  did  she  say  to  you? 
ethelbert.     She  said,  "Do  you  know,  you've  got  the  most 

delightfully  wicked  eyes."     That  was  how  it  began. 

[Delia  comes  in  right.     She  is  a  tall,  gorgeously-dressed  and 

beautiful  woman,  with  a  mass  of  red-gold  hair. 
delia  (in  a  fury).     Really,  Bertie,  this  is  too  bad.     I've 

been  looking  for  you  all  over  the  hotel. 
Alfred.     This,  I  presume,  is  the  lady  in  question. 
ethelbert.     My  dear  Delia,  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  that  I 

have  been  detained,  but  this  lady  is  an  old  acquaintance 

of  mine.     She  is,  in  fact,  my  wife. 


FANCY   FREE  279 


delia.     Indeed.     (To  Fancy)     So  you  are  his  wife? 

fancy.     As  it  happens. 

delia.  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  if  only  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  complaining  about  the  way  you  have 
trained  your  husband. 

fancy.     I  did  not  train  him. 

delia.  That  is  just  what  I  complain  about.  Under  the 
circumstances  I  can  forgive  his  leaving  me  alone  in  the 
Lounge  of  a  strange  hotel,  but  his  table  manners  are  frankly 
uncivilized.  Do  you  know  that  he  reads  the  morning 
paper  during  breakfast? 

fancy.     He  never  does  so  at  home. 

delia.     You  must  not  expect  to  make  me  believe  that. 

fancy.  But  it  is  perfectly  true.  During  breakfast  I  al- 
ways read  the  morning  paper  myself. 

delia.     Ah,  no  doubt  in  self-defence. 

fancy.     Not  at  all. 

delia.  I  suppose  one  can  become  inured  to  anything,  in 
time,  even  to  Bertie's  light  breakfast  conversation. 

fancy.  That  shows  how  superficial  your  acquaintance  with 
Ethelbert  is.  I  like  his  breakfast  conversation  because  he 
goes  on  talking  without  stopping.  Consequently,  it  is  not 
necessary  for  me  to  pay  any  attention  to  him,  and  I  can 
read  the  morning  paper  in  peace. 

ethelbert.  This  is  most  unkind  of  you  both.  My  light 
breakfast  conversation  has  always  been  much  admired, 
especially  by  ladies.  (To  Delia)  I  am  sure  you  will 
alter  your  opinion  if  you  will  only  do  me  the  favour, 
Delia,  of  listening  a  little  more  carefully  to-morrow 
morning. 

fancy.     Certainly  not. 

ethelbert.     I  beg  your  pardon? 

fancy.  She  will  have  no  opportunity  of  listening  to  you 
more  carefully. 

ETHELBERT.       Why  not? 

fancy.  Because  you  will  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow 
morning. 


280  FANCY   FREE 


ethelbert.  Oh,  very  well,  then  perhaps  you  will  do  me  the 
favour  of  listening  more  carefully. 

fancy.  I  fancy  that  during  breakfast  to-morrow  you  will 
be  fully  occupied  in  listening  to  me,  for  once  in  a  way.  I 
do  not  think  that  I  shall  have  sufficient  time  to  say  all  I 
wish  to  say  to  you  to-night.  You  have  provided  me  with 
a  very  fruitful  topic. 

ethelbert.  But,  my  dear  Fancy,  I  fear  we  can  hardly  pur- 
sue it  to-night.  We  both  appear  to  have  previous  en- 
gagements. 

delia  (to  Ethelbert).     You  have  no  previous  engagement. 

ethelbert.     Delia! 

delia.     It  is  cancelled. 

ethelbert.     You  are  cruel,  Delia. 

delia.  It  is  your  own  fault.  How  can  you  expect  any 
self-respecting  woman  to  put  up  with  the  treatment  I  have 
received  from  you? 

fancy.  May  I  ask  what  further  complaint  you  have  to 
make  about  my  husband? 

delia.  He  has  no  sense  of  decency.  I  consider  it  grossly 
indelicate  of  him  to  bring  me  to  this  hotel  whilst  you  are 
stopping  here.  I  have  never  been  treated  in  such  a  manner 
before. 

fancy.  I  think  you  take  a  very  proper  view  of  the  affair. 
Ethelbert  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself. 

delia.  Good-bye,  Bertie.  (She  holds  out  her  hand)  I  shall 
never  listen  to  your  light  breakfast  conversation  again. 

fancy.  And  good-bye,  Alfred.  (She  holds  out  her  hand) 
My  only  regret  is  that  I  shall  never  know  what  your  light 
breakfast  conversation  is  like. 

Alfred.  Don't  say  that,  Fancy.  Why  shouldn't  we  all  four 
have  breakfast  together  in  the  morning? 

delia.  No.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  draw  the  line  some- 
where. 

fancy.  You  are  right.  You  have  the  most  perfect  taste. 
I  am  begining  to  admire  you  immensely.     Good-bye. 

Delia.     Good-bye. 


FANCY  FREE  281 


fancy.     Good  night,  Alfred. 
alfred.     Good  night,  Fancy. 
fancy.     Come,  Ethelbert. 

[She  takes  his  arm. 
ethelbert  (to  Delia  and  Alfred).     Good  night. 

[Fancy  and  Ethelbert  go  out  left.     A  pause. 
delia  (raising  her  eyebrows).     Well? 

ALFRED.       Well? 

delia.     And  what  do  we  do  now? 

alfred.     Would  you  like  some  supper? 

delia.     No,  thanks.      (She  sits  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire) 

You  may  order  me  some  champagne  if  you  like. 
alfred.     Willingly. 

[Alfred  rings  an  electric  bell,  and  then  sits  facing  Delia  in 

the  other  armchair.   They  look  straight  at  each  other  for  a  time. 
delia  (at  length,  leaning  forward).     Do  you  know,  you've 

got  the  most  delightfully  wicked  eyes. 

curtain 

(This  play  should  be  acted  with  the  most  perfect  seriousness 
and  polish.  It  should  not  be  played  in  a  spirit  of  burlesque. 
It  shoidd  be  beautifully  acted,  beautifully  costumed  and  beauti- 
fully staged.) 


LONESOME  LIKE 

HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 

The  author  of  "Lonesome-Like"  was  born  in  Lancashire  in 
1882,  and  was  educated  at  tbe  Manchester  Grammar  School. 
Harold  Brighouse  has  been  closely  identified  with  the  "Man- 
chester School "  of  drama,  because  some  of  his  best  known 
plays  are  concerned  with  the  people  of  his  native  Lancashire 
and  were  first  produced  by  Miss  Horniman's  Repertory 
Company  at  the  Gaiety  Theater  in  Manchester.  That  his 
work  is  too  closely  identified  with  this  movement  is  re- 
gretted by  Mr.  B.  Iden  Payne  in  his  preface  to  "Hobson's 
Choice",  as  it  "tends  to  give  the  impression  that  all  his 
plays  have  a  local  character.  Actually  the  sixteen  plays, 
long  and  short,  which  have  already  [1916]  been  performed 
cover  a  wide  range  in  setting  and  subject,  and  out  of  this 
number  only  five  have  a  Lancashire  background,  and  only 
six  have  been  played  by  Miss  Horniman's  company." 

Mr.  Brighouse's  first  characteristic  dramatic  venture  was 
'The  Doorway  ",  "little  more  than  a  dialogue  between  two 
outcasts,  a  man  and  a  woman,  strangers  to  each  other,  who 
meet  by  chance  in  the  shelter  of  a  factory  door  and  find 
mutual  comfort  in  telling  over  their  misfortunes  and  their 
past  adventures  as  they  huddle  together  in  the  biting  cold 
of  the  small  hours  of  a  winter's  morning." 

The  author  is  interested  primarily  in  human  character;  in 
all  his  plays  one  remembers  longest  the  people,  not  the  situa- 
tions. His  best  work  is  found  in  his  comedies,  "Hobson's 
Choice"  and" Lonesome-Like"  being  without  doubt  his 
most  characteristic  pieces. 

Brighouse's  technical  art  is  exercised  to  the  end  that  human 
beings  may  be  exhibited  within  an  interesting  framework, 
not  that  the  framework  may  be  an  end  in  itself.  Says 
Brighouse  in  his  Preface  to  "Three  Lancashire  Plays":   "It 


284  LONESOME-LIKE 

is  those  plays  which  exhibit  in  high  degree  the  use  of  action 
in  the  form  of  dialogue  that  are  the  more  comfortable  read- 
ing; and,  always  postulating  that  a  play  is  a  play  ...  a 
thing  practicable,  actable  and  effective  on  the  stage  —  the 
more  physical  action  is  subordinated  to  character,  to  the  ex- 
ploration of  human  nature,  the  better  it  is  for  reading  pur- 
poses and  the  better  for  all  purposes." 

PLAYS 

"The  Doorway  (1909)  The  Northerners  (1914) 

*The  Price  of  Coal  (1909)  Hobson's  Choice  (1915) 

Dealing  in  Futures  (1909)  "Converts  (1915) 

Graft  (1911)  TheRoadtoRaebury(1915) 

The  Polygon  (1911)  "Followers  (1915) 

*Lonesome-Like  (1911)  The  Hillarys  (1915) 

*The  Oak  Settle  (1911)  (In  collaboration   with 

*SpringinBloomsbury(1911)  Stanley  Houghton) 

*The  Scaring-Off  of  Teddy  Zack  (1916) 

Dawson  (1911)  The  Clock  Goes  Round 

♦Little  Red  Shoes  (1912)  (1916) 

The  Odd  Man  Out  (1912)  Maid  of  France  (1917) 

The  Game  (1913)  Other  Times  (1920) 
Garside's  Career  (1914) 

"The  Doorway",  "Dealing  in  Futures",  "Graft",  "The 
Oak  Settle",  "The  Scaring-Off  of  Teddy  Dawson",  and 
"The  Odd  Man  Out"  are  published  separately  by  Samuel 
French,  New  York;  "The  Game",  "The  Northerners",  and 
"Zack",  in  "Three  Lancashire  Plays",  by  the  same;  "The 
Price  of  Coal",  "Lonesome-Like",  "Converts",  and  "Maid 
of  France",  by  Gowans  and  Gray,  London;  "Garside's 
Career",  by  A.  C.  McClurg  and  Company,  Chicago;  and 
"Hobson's  Choice",  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company, 
Garden  City,  Long  Island. 

References:  Introduction  to  "Hobson's  Choice",  Double- 
day,  Page  and  Company,  Garden  City,  Long  Island. 

Magazines:   Manchester  Quarterly,  vol.  33,  p.  213. 


LONESOME-LIKE 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 
By  HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 


"Lonesome-Like"  was  first  produced  at  Glasgow  in  1911. 

Characters 

Sarah  Ormerod 

Emma  Brierly 

Sam  Horrocks 

The  Rev.  Frank  Alleyne 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  a  Lancashire  village. 


Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publisher,  Le  Roy  Phillips 


LONESOME-LIKE 

The  Scene  represents  the  interior  of  a  cottage  in  a  Lan- 
cashire Village.  Through  the  window  at  the  back  the  grey  row 
of  cottages  opposite  is  just  visible.  The  outside  door  is  next  to 
the  window.  Door  left.  A  s  regards  furniture  the  room  is  very 
bare.  The  suggestion  is  not  of  an  empty  room,  bid  a  stripped 
room.  For  example,  there  are  several  square  patches  where  the 
distemper  of  the  walls  is  of  a  darker  shade  than  the  rest,  indi- 
cating the  places  once  occupied  by  pictures.  There  is  an  un- 
covered deal  table  and  two  chairs  by  it  near  the  fireplace  right. 
Attached  to  the  left  wall  is  a  dresser  and  a  plate  rack  above  it 
containing  a  few  pots.  The  dresser  has  also  one  or  two  utensils 
upon  it.  A  blackened  kettle  rests  on  the  top  of  the  cooking 
range,  but  the  room  contains  only  the  barest  necessities.  The 
floor  is  uncarpeted.  There  are  no  windoio  curtains,  bid  a  yard 
of  cheap  muslin  is  fastened  across  the  window,  not  coming, 
however,  high  enough  to  prevent  a  passer-by  from  looking  in 
should  he  wish  to  do  so.  On  the  floor,  near  the  fire,  is  a  battered 
black  tin  trunk,  the  lid  of  which  is  raised.  On  a  peg  behind  the 
door  left  is  a  black  silk  skirt  and  bodice  and  an  old-fashioned 
beaded  bonnet.  The  time  is  afternoon.  As  the  curtain  rises 
the  room  is  empty.  Immediately,  however,  the  door  left  opens 
and  Sarah  Ormerod,  an  old  woman,  enters  carrying  clumsily 
in  her  arms  a  couple  of  pink  flannelette  night-dresses,  folded 
neatly.  Her  black  stuff  dress  is  well  worn,  and  her  wedding- 
ring  is  her  only  ornament.  She  icears  elastic-sided  boots,  and 
her  rather  short  skirt  shows  a  pair  of  grey  icorsted  stockings.  A 
small  plaid  shawl  covers  her  shoulders.  Sarah  crosses  and  puts 
the  night-dresses  on  the  table,  surveying  the  trunk  ruefully. 
There  is  a  knock  at  the  outside  door  and  she  looks  up. 
sarah.  Who's  theer? 
emma  (without).     It's  me,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  Emma  Brierly. 


288  LONESOME-LIKE 


sarah.     Eh,  coom  in,  Emma,  lass. 

[Enter  Emma  Brierly.  She  is  a  young  weaver,  and,  having 
just  left  her  work,  she  wears  a  dark  skirt,  a  blouse  of  some  in- 
determinate blue-grey  shade  made  of  cotton,  and  a  large  shawl 
over  her  head  and  shoulders  in  'place  of  a  jacket  and  hat.  A 
coloured  cotton  apron  covers  her  skirt  below  the  waist,  and  the 
short  skirt  displays  stout  stockings  similar  to  Sarah's.  She 
wears  clogs,  and  the  clothes  —  except  the  shawl  —  are  covered 
with  ends  of  cotton  and  cotton-wool  fluff.  Even  her  hair  has 
not  escaped.  A  pair  of  scissors  hangs  by  a  cord  from  her 
waist. 

sarah.  Tha's  kindly  welcoom.  It's  good  o'  thee  to  think 
o'  coomin'  to  see  an  ould  woman  like  me. 

emma  {by  door).  Nought  o'  th'  sort,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  Th' 
mill's  just  loosed  and  A  thowt  A'd  step  in  as  A  were  passin' 
and  see  'ow  tha  was  feeling  like. 

sarah  {crossing  to  box).  Oh,  nicely,  nicely,  thankee.  It's 
only  my  'ands  as  is  gone  paralytic,  tha  knaws,  an'  a 
weaver's  no  manner  o'  good  to  nobody  without  th'  use  o' 
'er  'ands.     A'm  all  reeght  in  masel'.     That's  worst  of  it. 

emma.  Well,  while  A'm  'ere,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  is  theer  nought 
as  A  can  do  for  thee? 

sarah.     A  dunno  as  theer  is,  thankee,  Emma. 

emma  {taking  her  shawl  off,  looking  round  and  hanging  it  on 
a  peg  in  the  door).  Well,  A  knaws  better.  What  wert 
doin'  when  A  coom  in?     Packin'  yon  box? 

sarah.  Aye.  Tha  sees  theer 's  a  two  three  things  as  A 
canna  bear  thowt  o'  parting  from.  A  don't  reeghtly  knaw 
if  they'll  let  me  tak'  'em  into  workus  wi'  me,  but  A  canna 
have  'em  sold  wi'  rest  of  stuff. 

emma  {crosses  below  Sarah  to  box,  and  kneels) .    Let  me  help  yo. 

sarah.    Tha's  a  good  lass,  Emma.    A'd  tak'  it  kindly  of  thee. 

emma.  They'd  do  wi'  packin'  a  bit  closer.  A  dunno  as 
they'd  carry  safe  that  road. 

sarah.     A  know.     It's  my  'ands  tha  sees,  as  mak's  it  diffi- 
cult for  me. 
[Sits  on  chair  left  centre. 


LONESOME-LIKE  289 

emma.     Aye.     A'll  soon  settle  'em  a  bit  tighter. 

[Lifts  all  out.     Burying  her  arms  in  the  box  and  rearranging 

its  contents. 
sarah.     But  what's  'appened  to  thy  looms,  lass?     They'll 

not  weave  by  'emselves  while  thee's  'ere,  tha  knows. 
emma  (looking  round).     Eh,  looms  is  all  reeght.     Factory's 

stopped.     It's  Saturday  afternoon. 
sarah.     So  'tis.     A'd  clean  forgot.     A  do  forget  time  o'  th' 

week  sittin'  'ere  day  arter  day  wi'  nought  to  do. 
EMMA.     So  that's  all  reeght.     Tha's  no  need  to  worry  about 

me.     Tha's  got  trouble  enough  of  thy  own. 

[Resuming  at  the  box. 
sarah.     Aye,  th'art  reeght  theer,  lass.     Theer's  none  on  us 

likes  to  think  o'  going  to  workus  when  we're  ould. 
emma.     'Appen  it'll  be  all  reeght  after  all.     Parson's  coomin' 

to  see  thee. 
sarah.     Aye,  A  knaw  'e  is.     A  dunno,  but  A'm  in  'opes 

'e'll  do  summat  for  me.     Tha  can't  never  tell  what  them 

folks  can  do. 
emma  (kneeling  up).     Tha  keep  thy  pecker  oop,  Mrs.  Or- 

merod.     That's  what  my  moother  says  to  me  when  A 

tould  'er  A  were  coomin'  in  to  thee.     Keep  'er  pecker  oop, 

she  says.     It's  not  as  if  she'd  been  lazy  or  a  wastrel,  she 

says;  Sal  Ormerod's  bin  a  'ard  worker  in  'er  day,  she  says. 

It's  not  as  if  it  were  thy  fault.     Tha  can't  'elp  tha  'ands 

going  paralytic. 

[She  continues  rummaging  in  the  trunk  while  speaking. 
sarah.     Naw.     It's  not  my  fault.     God  knaws  A'm  game 

enough  for  work,  ould  as  A  am.     A  allays  knawed  as  A'd 

'ave  to  work  for  my  living  all  th'  days  o'  my  life.     A  never 

was  a  savin'  sort. 
emma.     Theer's  nowt  against  thee  for  that.    Theer's  some  as 

can  be  careful  o'  theer  brass  an'  some  as  can't.     It's  not 

a  virtue,  it's  a  gift.     That's  what  my  moother  allays  says. 

[Resumes  packing. 
sarah.     She's  reeght  an'  all.     We  never   'ad  the  gift  o' 

savin',  my  man  and  me.     An'  when  Tom  Ormerod  took 


290  LONESOME-LIKE 

an'  died,  the  club  money  as  A  drew  all  went  on  'is  funeral 
an'  is  gravestone.  A  warn't  goin'  to  'ave  it  said  as  'e 
warn't  buried  proper. 

emma.     It  were  a  beautiful  funeral,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

sarah.     Aye. 

emma.  A  will  say  that,  beautiful  it  were.  A  never  seen  a 
better,  an'  A  goes  to  all  as  A  can.  (Rises)  A  dotes  on 
buryin's.     Are  these  the  next? 

[Crosses  centre  before  table  for  night-dresses.  Takes  the  night- 
dresses, and  resumes  'packing. 

sarah.  Aye.  (Emma  puts  them  in  and  rests  on  her  knees 
listening  to  Sarah's  next  speech.  Pause)  A've  been  a 
'ouseproud  woman  all  my  life,  Emma,  an  A've  took 
pride  in  'aving  my  bits  o'  sticks  as  good  as  another's. 
Even  th'  manager's  missus  oop  to  factory  'ouse  theer, 
she  never  'ad  a  better  show  o'  furniture  nor  me,  though 
A  says  it  as  shouldn't.  An'  it  tak's  brass  to  keep  a 
decent  'ouse  over  your  yead.  An'  we  allays  'ad  our  full 
week's  'ollydain'  at  Blackpool  reglar  at  Wakes  time. 
Us  didn't  'ave  no  childer  o'  our  own  to  spend  it  on, 
an'  us  spent  it  on  ourselves.  A  allays  'ad  a  plenty  o' 
good  food  in  th'  'ouse  an'  never  stinted  nobody,  an'  Tom 
'e  liked  'is  beer  an'  'is  baccy.  'E  were  a  pigeon-fancier  too 
in  'is  day,  were  my  Tom,  an'  pigeon-fancying  runs  away 
wi'  a  mint  o'  money.  No.  Soom'ow  theer  never  was  no 
brass  to  put  in  th'  bank.  We  was  allays  spent  oop  coom 
wages  neeght. 

emma.  A  knaw,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  May  be  A'm  young, 
but  A  knaw  'ow  'tis.  We  works  cruel  'ard  in  th' 
mill,  an',  when  us  plays,  us  plays  as  'ard  too  (pause), 
an'  small  blame  to  us  either.  It's  our  own  we're 
spendin'. 

sarah.  Aye.  It's  a  'ard  life,  the  factory  'and's.  A  can 
mind  me  many  an'  many's  the  time  when  tb'  warnin'  bell 
went  on  th'  factory  lodge  at  ha'f  past  five  of  a  winter's 
mornin'  as  A've  craved  for  another  ha'f  hour  in  my  bed, 
but  Tom  'e  got  me  oop  an'  we  was  never  after  six  passin' 


LONESOME-LIKE  291 

through  factory  gates  all  th'  years  we  were  wed.  There's 
not  many  as  can  say  they  were  never  late.  "Work  or 
Clem,"  that  were  what  Tom  allays  tould  me  th'  ould  bell 
were  sayin'.  An'  'e  were  reeght,  Emma,  "Work  or  Clem" 
is  God's  truth.  (Emmas  head  in  box)  An'  now  th'  time's 
coom  when  A  can't  work  no  more.  But  Parson's  a  good 
man,  'e'll  mak'  it  all  reeght.  (Emma's  head  appears) 
Eh,  it  were  good  o'  thee  to  coom  in,  lass.  A  bit  o'  coom- 
pany  do  mak'  a  world  o'  difference.  A'm  twice  as  cheer- 
ful as  A  were. 

emma.  A'm  glad  to  'ear  tha  say  so,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  (Rises 
from  the  box)     Is  theer  owt  else? 

sarah.  A  were  thinking  A'd  like  to  tak'  my  black  silk  as 
A've  worn  o'  Sundays  this  many  a  year,  but  A  canna  think 
its  reeght  thing  for  workus. 

emma.     Oh,  thee  tak'  it,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

sarah.  A'd  dearly  love  to.  Tha  sees  A'm  noan  in  debt, 
nobbut  what  chairs  an  table  'ull  pay  for,  and  A  doan't 
like  thowt  o'  leaving  owt  as  A'm  greatly  fond  of. 

emma.  Yo  doan't,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  Thee  tak'  it.  Wheer  is 
it?  A'll  put  un  in.  Theer's  lots  o'  room  on  top.  A'll 
see  un's  noan  crushed. 

sarah.  It's  hanging  theer  behind  door.  (Emma  crosses  back 
to  door,  gets  clothes)  A  got  un  out  to  show  Parson.  A 
thowt  A'd  ask  un  if  it  were  proper  to  tak'  it  if  A've  to  go. 
My  best  bonnet's  with  it,  an'  all. 

[Emma  goes  bcloiv  table,  takes  the  frock  and  bonnet,  folds  it 
on  the  table  and  packs  it. 

emma.     A'll  put  un  in. 

sarah.     A'm  being  a  lot  o'  trouble  to  thee,  lass. 

emma.     That's  nowt,  neighbours  mun  be  neighbourly. 
[Gets  bonnet  from  table  and  packs  it. 

sarah  (pause.  Looking  round).  Place  doan't  look  much, 
an'  that's  a  fact.  Th'  furniture's  bin  goin'  bit  by  bit,  and 
theer  ain't  much  left  to  part  wi'  now. 

emma.  Never  mind,  it  'ull  be  all  reeght  now  Parson's  takken 
thee  oop. 


292  LONESOME-LIKE 


sarah.  A'm  hopin'  so.  A  am  hopin'  so.  A  never  could 
abide  th'  thowt  o'  th'  workus  —  me  as  'as  bin  an  'ard  workin' 
woman.  A  couldn't  fancy  sleepin'  in  a  strange  bed  wi' 
strange  folk  round  me,  an'when  th'  Matron  said  "  Do  that" 
A'd  'ave  to  do  it,  an'  when  she  said  "Go  theer"  A'd  'ave 
to  a'  gone  wheer  she  tould  me  —  me  as  'as  allays  'eld  my 
yead  'igh  an'  gone  the  way  A  pleased  masel'.  Eh,  it's  a 
terrible  thowt,  the  workus. 

emma  (rising).     Now  tha's  sure  that's  all? 

sarah  (pause.  Considers).  Eh,  if  A  havna  forgot  my 
neeghtcaps.  (Rises,  moves  centre  and  stops)  A  suppose 
they'll  let  me  wear  un  in  yonder.  A  doan't  reeghtly 
think  as  A'd  get  my  rest  proper  wi'out  my  neeghtcaps. 

emma.     Oh,  they'll  let  thee  wear  un  all  reeght. 

sarah  (as  she  goes).  A'll  go  an'  get  un.  (Exit  right.  Re- 
turning presently  with  the  white  nightcaps)  That's  all  now. 
[Giving  them  to  Emma,  who  meets  her  center. 

emma  (putting  them  in).  Yo  never  'ad  no  childer,  did  yo, 
Mrs.  Ormerod? 

sarah.  No,  Emma,  no — may  be  that's  as  broad  as  's  long. 
(Sits  above  fire)  Yo  never  knaw  'ow  they  go.  Soom  on 
'em  turn  again  yo  when  they're  growed  or  they  get  wed 
themselves  an'  forget  all  as  yo've  done  for  'em,  like  a  many 
A  could  name,  and  they're  allays  a  worrit  to  yo  when 
they're  young. 

emma.     A'm  gettin'  wed  masel'  soon,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

sarah.  Are  yo,  now,  Emma?  Well,  tha  art  not  one  o'  them 
graceless  good-for-nowts.  Tha'll  never  forget  thy  moother, 
A  knaw,  nor  what  she's  done  for  thee.  Who's  tha  keepin' 
coompany  with? 

emma.     It's  Joe  Hindle  as  goes  wi'  me,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

sarah.  'Indie,  'Indie?  What,  not  son  to  Robert  'Indie, 
'im  as  used  to  be  overlooker  in  th'  factory  till  'e  went  to 
foreign  parts  to  learn  them  Roossians  'ow  to  weave? 

emma.     Aye,  that's  'im. 

sarah.  Well,  A  dunno  ought  about  th'  lad.  'Is  faither  were 
a  fine  man.     A  minds  'im  well.     But  A'll  tell  thee  this, 


LONESOME-LIKE  293 

Emma,  an'  A'll  tell  it  thee  to  thy  faice,  'e's  doin'  well  for 

'isself  is  young  Joe  'Indie. 
Emma.     Thankee,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
sarah.     Gettin'  wed!     Think  o'  that.     Why,  it  seems  as 

t'were  only  t'other  day  as  tha  was  running  about  in  short 

frocks,  an'  now  tha's  growed  up  and  gettin'  thasel'  wed! 

Time  do  run  on.     Sithee,  Emma,  tha's  a  good  lass.    A've 

gotten  an  ould  tea-pot  in  yonder  {indicating  her  bedroom) 

as  my  moother  give  me  when  A  was  wed.     A  weren't  for 

packing  it  in  box  because  o'  risk  o'  breaking  it.     A  were 

going  to  carry  it  in  my  'and.     A'd  a  mind  to  keep  it  till  A 

died,  but  A  reckon  A'll  'ave  no  use  for  it  in  workus. 
emma.     Tha's  not  gone  theer  yet. 
sarah.     Never  mind  that.     (Slowly  rises)     A'm  going  to 

give  it  thee,  lass,  for  a  weddin'-gift.    Tha'll  tak'  care  of  it, 

A  knaw,  and  when  thy  eye  catches  it,  'appen  tha'll  spare 

me  a  thowt. 
EMMA.     Oh  no,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  A  couldn't  think  o'  takkin'  it. 
sarah.     Art  too  proud  to  tak'  a  gift  from  me? 
emma.     No.     Tha  knaws  A'm  not. 
sarah.     Then  hold  thy  hush.     A'll  be  back  in  a  minute. 

Happen    A'd   best   tidy   masel'    up   too   against   Parson 

cooms. 
emma.     Can  A  help  thee,  Mrs.  Ormerod? 
sarah.     No,   lass,  no.     A  can  do  a  bit  for  masel'.     My 

'ands  isn't  that  bad.  A  canna  weave  wi'  'em,  but  A  can  do 

all  as  A  need  to. 
emma.     Well,  A'll  do  box  up. 

[Crosses  to  table  right  and  gets  cord. 
sarah.     Aye. 
emma.     All  reeght. 

(Exit  Sarah.     A  maris  face  appears  outside  at  the  window. 

He  surveys  the  room,  and  then  the  face  vanishes  as  he  knocks 

at  the  door)     Who's  theer? 
sam  (without).     It's  me,  Sam  Horrocks.     (Emma  crosses  left 

and  opens  door)     May  A  coom  in? 
emma.     What  dost  want? 


294  LONESOME-LIKE 


sam  (on  the  doorstep).  A  want  a  word  wi'  thee,  Emma 
Brierly.  A  followed  thee  oop  from  faetory  and  A've  bin 
waitin'  out  theer  till  A'm  tired  o'  waitin'. 

emma.  Well,  tha'd  better  coom  in.  A  'aven't  time  to  talk 
wi'  thee  at  door. 

[Emma  lets  him  in,  closes  door,  and,  leaving  him  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  resumes  work  on  her  knees  at  the  box. 
Sam  Horrocks  is  a  hulking  young  man  of  a  rather  vacant  ex- 
pression. He  is  dressed  in  mechanic  s  blue  dungarees.  His 
face  is  oily  and  his  clothes  stained.  He  wears  boots,  not 
clogs.  He  mechanically  takes  a  ball  of  oily  black  cotton- 
waste  from  his  right  pocket  when  in  conversational  difficulties 
and  wipes  his  hands  upon  it.  He  has  a  red  muffler  round  his 
neck  without  collar,  and  his  shock  of  fair  hair  is  surmounted 
by  a  greasy  black  cap,  which  covers  perhaps  one-tenth  of  it. 

sam  (after  watching  Emma's  back  for  a  moment).  Wheer's 
Mrs.  Ormerod? 

emma  (without  looking  up).     What's  that  to  do  wi'  thee? 

sam  (apologetically).  A  were  only  askin'.  Tha  needn't  be 
short  wi'  a  chap. 

emma.     She's  in  scullery  washin'  'er  if  tha  wants  to  knaw. 

sam.     Oh ! 

emma  (looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder  after  a  slight  pause). 
Doan't  tha  tak'  thy  cap  off  in  'ouse,  Sam  Horrocks? 

sam.     Naw. 

emma.  Well,  tha  can  tak'  it  off  in  this  'ouse  or  get  t'  other 
side  o'  door. 

sam  (takes  off  his  cap  and  stuffs  it  in  his  left  pocket  after  trying 
his  right  and  finding  the  ball  of  waste  in  it).     Yes,  Emma. 
[Emma  resumes  work  with  her  back  towards  him  and  waits 
for  him  to  speak.     But  he  is  not  ready  yet. 

emma.     Well,  what  dost  want? 

sam.     Nought.    .    .    .   Eh,  but  thou  art  a  gradely  wench. 

emma.     What's  that  to  do  wi'  thee? 

sam.     Nought. 

emma.  Then  just  tha  mind  thy  own  business,  an'  doan't 
pass  compliments  behind  folks'  backs. 


LONESOME-LIKE  295 

sam.     A  didn't  mean  no  'arm. 

emma.     Well? 

sam.     It's  a  fine  day,  isn't  it?     For  th'  time  o'  th'  year? 

emma.     Aye. 

sam.     A  very  fine  day. 

emma.     Aye. 

sam  (desperate).     It's  a  damned  fine  day. 

emma.     Aye. 

sam  (after  a  moment).     Dost  know  my  'ouse,  Emma? 

emma.     Aye. 

sam.     Wert  ever  in  it? 

emma.     Not  sin'  tha  mootker  died. 

sam.  Naw.  A  suppose  not.  Not  sin'  ma  moother  died. 
She  were  a  fine  woman,  ma  moother,  for  all  she  were  bed- 
ridden. 

emma.  She  were  better  than  'er  son,  though  that's  not  say- 
ing much  neither. 

sam.  Naw,  but  tha  does  mind  ma  'ouse,  Emma,  as  it  were 
when  she  were  alive? 

emma.     Aye. 

sam.  A've  done  a  bit  at  it  sin'  them  days.  Got  a  new  quilt 
on  bed  from  Co-op.     Red  un  it  is  wi'  blue  stripes  down  'er. 

emma.     Aye. 

sam.     Well,  Emma? 

emma  (over  her  shoulder).  Well,  what?  What's  thy  'ouse 
an'  thy  quilt  to  do  wi'  me? 

sam.  Oh  nought.  .  .  .  Tha  doesn't  'elp  a  feller  much, 
neither. 

emma  (rising  and  facing  him.  Sam  is  behind  corner  table  and 
backs  a  little  before  her).  What's  tha  gettin'  at,  Sam  Hor- 
rocks?     Tha's  got  a  tongue  in  thy  faice,  hasn't  tha? 

sam.     A  suppose  so.     A  doan't  use  it  much  though. 

emma.  No.  Tha's  not  much  better  than  a  tongue-tied 
idiot,  Sam  Horrocks,  allays  mooning  about  in  th'  engine- 
house  in  day-time  an'  sulkin'  at  'ome  neeght-time. 

sam.  Aye,  A'm  lonely  sin'  ma  moother  died.  She  did  'ave 
a  way  wi'  'er,  ma  moother.     Th'  'ould  plaice  'as  not  bin 


296  LONESOME-LIKE 

t'  same  to  me  sin'  she  went.     Day-time,  tha  knaws,  A'm 

all  reeght.     Tha  sees,  them  engines,  them  an'  me's  pals. 

They  talks  to  me  an'  A  understands  their  ways.     A  doan't 

some'ow  seem  to  understand  the  ways  o'  folks  like  as  A 

does  th'  ways  o'  them  engines. 
emma.     Tha  doesn't  try.     T'other  lads  goes  rattin'  or  dog- 

feeghtin'  on  a  Sunday  or  to  a  football  match  of  a  Saturday 

afternoon.     Tha  stays  moonin'  about  th'   'ouse.     Tha's 

not  likely  to  understand  folks.     Tha's  not  sociable. 
sam.     Naw.     That's  reeght  enough.     A  nobbut  get  laughed 

at  when  A  tries  to  be  sociable  an'  stand  my  corner  down 

at  th'  pub  wi'  th'  rest  o'  th'  lads.     It's  no  use  ma  tryin' 

to  soop  ale,  A  can't  carry  th'  drink  like  t'others.     A  knaws 

A've  ways  o'  ma  own. 
emma.     Tha  has  that. 
sam.     A'm  terrible  lonesome,  Emma.     That  theer  'ouse  o' 

mine,  it  do  want  a  wench  about  th'  plaice.      Th'  engines 

is  all  reeght  for  days,  but  th'  neeghts  is  that  lonesome-like 

tha  wouldn't  believe. 
emma.     Tha's  only  thasel'  to  blame.     It's  nought  to  do  wi' 

me,  choosehow. 
sam.     Naw?     A'd   .   .   .   A'd  'oped  as  W  it  might  'ave, 

Emma. 
emma    (approaching  threateningly).     Sam   Horrocks,   if  tha 

doan't  tell  me  proper  what  tha  means  A'll  give  tha  such 

a  slap  in  th'  mouth. 
s*am  (backing  before  her).      Tha  does  fluster  a  feller,  Emma. 

Just  like  ma  moother. 
emma.     A  wish  A  'ad  bin.     A'd  'ave  knocked  some  sense  into 

thy  silly  yead. 
«am  (suddenly  and  clumsily  kneels  above  chair  left  of  table). 

Wilt  tha  'ave  me,  Emma?     A  mak'  good  money  in  th' 

engine-house. 
emma.     Get  oop,  tha  great  fool.     If  tha  didn't  keep  thasel' 

so  close  wi'  tha  moonin'  about  in  th'  engine-'ouse  an'  never 

speakin'  a  word  to  nobody  tha'd  knaw  A  were  keepin' 

coompany  wi'  Joe  H indie. 


LONESOME-LIKE  297 


sam  (scrambling  up),     la  that  a  fact,  Emma? 
emma.     Of  course  it's  a  fact.     Barm's  'ull  be  oop  come  Sun- 
day fortneeght.     We've  not  'idden  it  neither.     It's  just 

like  the  great  blind  idiot  that  tha  art  not  to  'a'  seen  it  long 

enough  sin'. 
sam.     A  weren't  aware.     By  gum,  A  'ad  so  'oped  as  tha'd 

'ave  me,  Emma. 
emma  (a  little  more  softly).   A'm  sorry  if  A've  'urt  thee,  Sam. 
sam.     Aye.     It  were  ma  fault.     Eh,  well,  A  think  mebbe 

A'd  best  be  goin'. 
emma  (lifts  box  to  left).     Aye.     Parson's  coomin'  to  see  Mrs. 

Ormerod  in  a  minute. 
sam  (with  pride).    A  knaw  all  about  that,  anyhow. 
emma.     She'm  in  a  bad  way.     A  dunno  masel'  as  Parson  can 

do  much  for  'er. 
sam.     It's  'ard  lines  on  an  ould  un.     Well,  yo'll  not  want 

me  'ere.     A'll  be  movin'  on.     (-Getting  his  cap  out)     No 

offence,  Emma,  A  'ope.     A'd  'ave  asked  thee  first  if  A'd 

knawn  as  'e  were  after  thee.     A've  bin  tryin'  for  long 

enough. 
emma.     No.     Theer's  no  offence,  Sam.     Tha's  a  good  lad  if 

tha  art  a  fool,  an'  mebbe  tha's  no  to  blame  for   that. 

Good-bye. 
sam.     Good-bye,  Emma.     An'    .    .    .   An'  A  'ope  'e'll  mak' 

thee  'appy.     A'd  dearly  like  to  coom  to  th'  weddin'  an' 

shake  'is  'and. 

[Mrs.  Ormerod  heard  off  right. 
emma.     A'll  see  tha's  asked.     Theer's  Mrs.  Ormerod  stirrin'. 

Tha'd  best  be  gettin'. 
sam.     All  reeght.     Good-bye,  Emma. 
emma.     Good-bye,  Sam. 

[Exit  Sam  left  center.     Mrs.  Ormerod  comes  from  the  inside 

door.     She  has  a  small  blue  tea-pot  in  her  hand. 
sarah.     Was   anybody   'ere,    Emma?     A   thowt   A   yeard 

someun  talkin',  only  my  yearin'  isn't  what  it  used  to  be, 

an'  A  warn't  sure. 
emma.     It  were  Sam  Horrocks,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 


298  LONESOME-LIKE 

sarah.     Yon  lad  of  ould  Sal  Horrocks  as  died  last  year?   'Im 

as  isn't  reeght  in  'is  yead? 
emma.     Aye.     'E's  bin  askin'  me  to  wed  'im. 
sarah    (incensed).     In   my    'ouse?     Theer's   imperence   for 

thee,  an'  tha  promised  to  another  lad,  an'  all.     A'd  'ave 

set  about  'im  wi'  a  stick,  Emma. 
emma.     'E  didn't  knaw  about  Joe.     It  made  me  feel  cruel 

like  to  'ave  to  tell  'im. 
sarah.     'E'll  get  ower  it.     Soom  lass'll  tak'  'im. 
emma.     A  suppose  so. 
sarah  (coming  down,  putting  the  tea-pot  in  Emma's  hands). 

Well,  theer's  tea-pot. 
emma    (meets  Sarah  right  center,   examining  tea-pot).      It's 

beautiful.     Beautiful,  it  is,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
sarah.     Aye,  it's  a  bit  o'  real  china  is  that.     Tha'll  tak' 

care  on't,  lass,  won't  thee? 
emma.     A  will  an'  all. 
sarah.     Aye.     A  knaw  it's  safe  wi'  thee.     Mebbe  safer  than 

it  would  be  in  workus.     A  can't  think  well  on  yon  plaice. 

A  goa  cold  all  ower  at  thowt  of  it. 

[A  knock  at  the  door. 
emma.     That'll  be  Parson. 
sarah  (crosses  left.  Smoothing  her  hair).  Goa  an' look  through 

window  first,  an'  see  who  'tis. 
emma  (puts  tea-pot  on  table.    Looking  through  window).    It's 

not  th'  ould  Parson.    It's  one  o'  them  young  curate  chaps. 
sarah.     Well,  coom  away  from  window  an'  sit  thee  down. 

It  won't  do  to  seem  too  eager.     Let  un  knock  again  if  it's 

not  th'  ould  Parson. 

(Emma  leaves  the  windoio  and  goes  to  right  of  table.     The 

knock  is  repeated.     Raising  her  voice)     Coom  in  so  who 

tha  art.     Door's  on  latch. 

[Enter  the  Rev.  Frank  Alleyne.     He  is  a  young  curate,  a 

Londoner  and  an  Oxford  man,  by  association,  training,  and 

taste,  totally  unfitted  for  a  Lancashire  curacy,  in  which  he  is 

unfortunately  no  exception. 
alleyne.     Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 


LONESOME-LIKE  299 

sarah.     Good  day  to  thee. 

alleyne.  I'm  sorry  to  say  Mr.  Blundell  has  had  to  go  to  a 
missionary  meeting,  but  he  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you 
in  his  stead. 

sarah.     Tha's  welcoom,  lad.     Sit  thee  down. 

[Emma  comes  below  table  left.  Dusts  a  chair  left  of  table, 
which  doesn't  need  it,  with  her  apron.  Alleyne  raises  a  depre- 
catory hand.  S ar all  s  familiarity ,  as  it  seems  to  him,  offends 
him.     He  looks  sonrly  at  Emma  and  markedly  ignores  her. 

alleyne.     Thank  you;  no,  I  won't  sit,  I  cannot  stay  long. 

sarah.     Just  as  tha  likes.     It's  all  same  to  me. 
[Emma  stays  by  right  of  table. 

alleyne.     How  is  it  with  you,  Mrs.  Ormerod? 

sarah.  It  might  be  worse.  A've  lost  th'  use  o'  my  'ands, 
and  they're  takkin'  me  to  workus,  but  A'm  not  dead  yet, 
and  that's  summat  to  be  thankful  for. 

alleyne.  Oh  yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  The  —  er  —  message 
I  am  to  deliver  is,  I  fear,  not  quite  what  Mr.  Blundell  led 
you  to  hope  for.  His  efforts  on  your  behalf  have  —  er  — 
unfortunately  failed.  He  finds  himself  obliged  to  give  up 
all  hope  of  aiding  you  to  a  livelihood.  In  fact  —  er  —  I  un- 
derstand that  the  arrangements  made  for  your  removal  to 
the  workhouse  this  afternoon  must  be  carried  out.  It 
seems  there  is  no  alternative.  I  am  grieved  to  be  the 
bearer  of  bad  tidings,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  find  a  com- 
fortable home  awaiting  you,  Mrs.  —  er  —  Ormerod. 

sarah.  'Appen  A  shall  an'  'appen  A  shan't.  Theer's  no 
tellin'  W  you'll  favour  a  thing  till  you've  tried  it. 

alleyne.  You  must  resign  yourself  to  the  will  of  providence. 
The  consolations  of  religion  are  always  with  us.  Shall  I 
pray  with  you? 

sarah.  A  never  were  much  at  prayin'  when  A  were  well  off, 
an'  A  doubt  the  Lord  ud  tak'  it  kind  o'  selfish  o'  me  if  A 
coom  cryin'  to  'im  now  A'm  'urt. 

alleyne.  He  will  understand.  Can  I  do  nothing  for 
you? 

sarah.     A  dunno  as  tha  can,  thankin'  thee  all  same. 


300  LONESOME-LIKE 

alleyne.  I  am  privileged  with  Mr.  Blundell's  permission 
to  bring  a  little  gift  to  you,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  (Feeling  in 
his  coat-tails  and  bringing  out  a  Testament)  Allow  me  to 
present  you  with  this  Testament,  and  may  it  help  you  to 
bear  your  Cross  with  resignation.  (He  hands  her  the  Tes- 
tament. Sarah  does  not  raise  her  hands,  and  it  drops  on  her 
lap.  Alleyne  takes  it  again  and  puts  it  on  the  table)  Ah, 
yes,  of  course   .    .    .   your  poor  hands   ...    I  understand. 

sarah.  Thankee  kindly.  Readin'  don't  eoom  easy  to  me, 
an'  my  eyes  aren't  what  they  were,  but  A'll  mak'  most 
of  it. 

alleyne.  You  will  never  read  that  in  vain.  And  now,  dear 
sister,  I  must  go.  I  will  pray  for  strength  for  you.  All 
will  be  well.     Good  day. 

sarah.     Good  day  to  thee. 
[Exit  Alleyne. 

emma.  Tha  doesn't  look  so  pleased  wi'  tha  gift,  Mrs.  Or- 
merod. 

sarah.  It's  not  square  thing  of  th'  ould  Parson,  Emma. 
'E  should  a  coom  an'  tould  me  'isself.  Looks  like  'e  were 
feart  to  do  it.  A  never  could  abide  them  curate  lads. 
We  doan't  want  no  grand  Lunnon  gentlemen  down  'ere. 
'E  doan't  understand  us  no  more  than  we  understand  'im. 
'E  means  all  reeght,  poor  lad.  Sithee,  Emma,  A've  bin 
a  Church-goin'  woman  all  my  days.  A  was  browt  oop 
to  Church,  an'  many's  th'  bit  o'  brass  they've  'ad  out  o' 
me  in  my  time.  An'  in  th'  end  they  send  me  a  fine  curate 
with  a  tupenny  Testament.  That's  all  th'  good  yo  get 
out  o'  they  folks. 

emma.  We'm  chapel  to  our  'ouse,  an'  'e  didn't  forget  to 
let  me  see  'e  knaw'd  it,  but  A  doan't  say  as  it's  ony  dif- 
ferent wi'  chapels,  neither.  They  get  what  they  can  outer 
yo,  but  yo  musn't  look  for  nothin'  back,  when  th'  pinch 
cooms.  (Clock  outside  strikes  three)  Sakes  alive,  theer's 
clock  goin'  three.     My  dinner  'ull  be  nice  an'  cold. 

sarah.  Eh,  what's  that,  lass?  Dost  mean  to  tell  me  tha's 
bin  clemmin'  all  this  time? 


LONESOME-LIKE  301 

emma.     A  coom  'ere  straight  from  factory. 
sarah.     Then  tha  doesn't  move  till  tha's  'ad  summat  to  eat. 
emma.     My  dinner's  ready  for  me  at  whoam,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
sarah.     Then  just  look  sharp  an'  get  it,  tha  silly  lass.   Tha's 

no  reeght  to  go  wi'out  thy  baggin'. 
emma  (putting  her  shawl  on).     All  reeght.     A'm  off. 

[Picking  up  tea-pot. 
sarah.     Tha's  bin  a  world  o'  coomfort  to  me,  Emma.    It'll 

be  'arder  to  bear  when  tha's  gone.    Th'  thowt's  too  much 

for  me.     Eh,  lass,  A'm  feart  o'  yon  great  gaunt  building 

wi'  th'  drear  windows. 
emma.     'Appen  ma  moother  'ull  coom  in.     Tha'll  do  wi'  a 

bit  o'  coompany.     A'll  ask  her  to  coom  an'  fetch  thee  a 

coop  o'  tea  by  an'  bye. 

[A  knock  at  the  door. 
sarah.     Who's  theer? 

sam  {without).     It's  only  me,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
emma.     A  do  declare  it's  that  Sam  Horrocks  again. 
sarah.     Sam  Horrocks!     What  can  th'  lad  be  after  now? 

(Calling)     Hast  tha  wiped  thy  boots  on  scraper? 
sam.     Yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
sarah.     Coom  in  then.     (Emma  in  left  corner.    Enter  Sam) 

Tak'  thy  cap  off. 
sam.     Yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
sarah.     What  dost  want? 
sam.     A've  soom  business  'ere.     A  thowt  A'd  find  thee  by 

thysel'.     A'll  coom  again. 

[Bolting  nervously  for  the  door. 
sarah.     Let  that  door  be.    Dost  say  tha's  got  business  'ere? 
sam.   Aye,  wi'  thee.   A'd  like  a  word  wi'  thee  private. 

[Emma  moves  to  open  door. 
sarah.     All  reeght.    Emma's  just  goin'  to  'er  dinner. 
emma  (speaking  through  door).     A'll  ask  my  moother  to  step 

in  later  on,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  and  thank  thee  very  much  for 

th'  tea-pot. 
sarah.     A'll  be  thankful  if  she'll  coom.     (Exit  Emma  with 

tea-pot)     Now,  Sam  Horrocks,  what's  the  matter  wi'  thee? 


302  LONESOME-LIKE 

sam  {dropping  the  cotton  waste  he  is  fumbling  with  and  picking 
it  up).     It's  a  fine  day  for  th'  time  o'  th'  year. 

sarah.     Didst  want  to  see  me  private  to  tell  me  that,  lad? 

sam.     Naw,  not  exactly. 

sarah.  Well,  what  is  it  then?  Coom,  lad,  A'm  waitin'  on 
thee.  Art  tongue-tied?  Can't  tha  quit  niawlin'  yon  bit 
o'  waste  an'  tell  me  what  'tis  tha  wants? 

sam  {desperately).     Mebbe  it'll  not  be  so  fine  in  th'  mornin'. 

sarah.  A'll  tell  thee  what  A'd  do  to  thee  if  A  'ad  the  use  o' 
my  'ands,  my  lad.  A'd  coom  aside  thee  and  A'd  box  thy 
ears.  If  tha's  got  business  wi'  me,  tha'd  best  state  it 
sharp  or  A'll  be  showin'  thee  the  shape  o'  my  door. 

sam.  Tha  do  fluster  a  feller  so  as  A  doan't  knaw  wheer  A 
am.  A've  not  been  nagged  like  that  theer  sin'  my  ould 
moother  died. 

sarah.  A've  'eered  folk  say  Sal  Horrocks  were  a  slick  un  wi' 
'er  tongue. 

sam  {admiringly).  She  were  that.  Rare  talker  she  were. 
She'd  lie  theer  in  'er  bed  all  day  as  it  might  be  in  yon  cor- 
ner, an'  call  me  all  th'  names  she  could  put  her  tongue  to, 
till  A  couldn't  tell  ma  reeght  'and  from  ma  left.  {Still 
reminiscent)  Wonnerful  sperrit,  she  'ad,  considerin'  she 
were  bed-ridden  so  long.  She  were  only  a  little  un  an' 
cripple  an'  all,  but  by  gum  she  could  sling  it  at  a  feller  if 
'er  tea  weren't  brewed  to  'er  taste.  Talk!  She'd  talk  a 
donkey's  yead  off,  she  would. 

sarah  {on  her  mettle).  An'  A'll  talk  thy  silly  yead  off  an' 
all  if  tha  doan't  get  sharp  to  tellin'  me  what  tha  wants 
after  in  my  'ouse,  tha  great  mazed  idiot. 

sam.     Eh,  but  she  were  a  rare  un. 

sarah.     The  lad's  daft  aboot  his  moother. 

sam  {detachedly,  looking  at  window.  Pause).  Wunnerful 
breeght  the  sky  is,  to-day. 

sarah.  Tha  great  'ulkin'  fool.  A'd  tak'  a  broomstick  to 
thee  if — if  A'd  the  use  o'  my  'ands. 

sam.     Now,  if  that  isn't  just  what  ma  moother  used  to  say. 

sarah.  Dang  thy  moother.  An'  I  doan't  mean  no  disrespect 


LONESOME-LIKE  303 

to  'er  neither.  She's  bin  in  'er  grave  this  year  an'  more, 
poor  woman. 

sam.  A  canna  'elp  thinkin'  to  'er  all  same.  Eh,  but  she 
were  wunnerful. 

sarah.  An'  A'd  be  wunnerful  too.  A'd  talk  to  thee.  A'd 
call  thee  if  A  were  thy  moother  an'  A'd  to  live  aside  o' 
thee  neeght  an'  day. 

sam  {eagerly).     Eh,  by  gum,  but  A  wish  tha  would. 

sarah.     Would  what? 

sam.     Would  coom  an'  live  along  wi'  me. 

sarah.  Tha  great  fool,  what  dost  mean?  Art  askin'  me  to 
wed  thee? 

sam.  A  didn't  mean  to  offend  thee,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  A'm 
sorry  A  spoke.  A  allays  do  wrong  thing.  But  A  did  so 
'ope  as  tha  might  coom.  Tha  sees  A  got  used  to  moother. 
A  got  used  to  'earin'  'er  cuss  me.  A  got  used  to  doin'  for 
'er  and'  A've  nought  to  do  in  th'  evenings  now.  It's  ter- 
rible lonesome  in  th'  neeght-time.  An'  when  notion  coom 
to  me,  A  thowt  as  A'd  mention  un  to  thee  casual. 

sarah.  Dost  mean  it,  Sam  Horrocks?  Dost  tha  know  what 
tha's  sayin',  or  is  tha  foolin'  me? 

sam.  O'  course  A  mean  it.  Tha  sees  A'm  not  a  marryin' 
sort.  Th'  lasses  won't  look  at  me.  A'm  silly  Sam  to 
them,  A  knaws  it.  A've  a  slate  loose,  A  shan't  never  get 
wed.  A  thowt  A'd  mebbe  a  chance  wi'  yon  lass  as  were 
'ere  wi'  thee,  but  hoo  towld  me  A  were  too  late.  A  allays 
were  slow.  A  left  askin'  too  long  an'  A've  missed  'er.  A 
gets  good  money,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  but  A  canna  talk  to  a 
young  wench.  They  maks  me  go  'ot  and  cowld  all  over. 
An'  when  curate  towld  me  as  tha  was  to  go  to  workus,  A 
thowt  A'd  a  chance  wi'  thee.  A  knaw'd  it  weren't  a  big 
chance,  because  my  plaice  ain't  much  cop  after  what  tha's 
bin  used  to  'ere.  A've  got  no  fine  fixin's  nor  big  chairs  an' 
things  as  tha  used  to  'ave.  Eh,  but  A  would  'ave  loved 
to  do  for  thee  as  A  used  to  do  for  ma  moother,  an'  when  A 
yeerd  thee  talkin'  now  an'  callin'  me  a  fool  an'  th'  rest, 
by  gum,  A  just  yearned  to  'ave  thee  for  allays.     Tha'd 


304  LONESOME-LIKE 

fill  'er  plaice  wuniierful  well.     A'd  just  a'  loved  to  adopt 

thee. 
sarah.     To  adopt  me? 
sam.     Ay,  for  a  moother.     A'm  sorry  tha  can't  see  thy  way 

to  let  me.     A  didn't  mean  no  offence. 

[Turning  to  the  door. 
sarah.     'Ere  lad,  tha  tell  me  this.     If  A'd  said  tha  might 

tak'  me  for  thy  moother,  what  wouldst  ha'  done? 
sam.     Why  kissed  thee,  an'  takken  thee  oop  in  ma  arms 

whoam  to  thy  bed.    It's  standin'  ready  in  yonder  wi'  clean 

sheets  an'  all,  an'  a  new  quilt  from  Co-op.    A  'opes  you'll 

pardon  th'  liberty  o'  mentioning  it. 
sarah.     A  new  quilt,  Sam?     What's  colour? 
sam.     Red,  wi'  blue  stripes  down  'er. 
sarah.     A'm  not  a  light  weight,  tha  knows. 
sam.     A'd  carry  thee  easy — "Strong  in  th'  arm  and  weak  in 

th'  yead."     It's  an  ould  sayin',  but  it's  a  good  un,  an'  it 

fits. 
sarah.     Wilt  tha  try,  Sam  Horrocks?     God  bless  thee,  wilt 

tha  try,  lad? 
sam.     Dost   mean  it,   Mrs.   Ormerod?     Dost   mean  tha'll 

coom?     Tha's  not  coddin'  a  feller,  art  tha? 
sarah.     No,  A'm  not  coddin'.     Kiss  me,  Sam,  my  son. 

[He  kisses  her  and  lifts  her  in  his  arms. 
sam.     By  gum,  but  that  were  good.     A'll  coom  back  fur  thy 

box. 
sarah.     Carry  me  careful,  tha  great  luny.     A'm  not  a  sack 

o'  flour. 
sam.     Eh,  but  A  likes  to  year  thee  talk.     Yon  was  real 

mootherly,  it  were. 

[Exit  through  door,  carrying  her. 

CURTAIN  AT  CLINK  OF  LATCH 


MISS  TASSEY 

ELIZABETH  BAKER 

Elizabeth  Baker  is  one  of  the  younger  English  dramatists 
who  deals  in  the  everyday  aspects  of  modern  life.  Her 
"Naturalism"  —  to  use  an  overworked  term  —  is  of  the  un- 
emphatic  order;  it  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Natural- 
ism that  is  concerned  with  the  "unpleasant"  in  and  for  itself. 
Miss  Baker,  who  began  life  as  a  cashier  and  was  for  some 
time  a  professional  stenographer  and  private  secretary,  has 
made  use  of  her  sympathetic  and  acute  power  of  observa- 
tion, and  put  into  her  plays  that  part  of  life  which  she  best 
understands.  Her  first  play,  "  Beastly  Pride  ",  was  produced 
at  the  Croyden  Repertory  Theater  in  1907.  The  reception 
of  the  work  encouraged  Miss  Baker  to  attempt  a  full-length 
play.  "Chains",  her  best-known  work,  was  first  produced 
by  the  Play  Actors,  and  later  at  the  Duke  of  York's  Theater 
during  Charles  Frohman'g  Repertory  season.  It  was  un- 
necessarily adapted,  and  produced  in  New  York  City  in  1913, 
where  it  promptly  failed.  William  Archer  said  of  "  Chains  ", 
"There  is  absolutely  no  'story'  in  it,  no  complication  of  in- 
cidents, not  even  any  emotional  tension  worth  speaking 
of.  .  .  .  A  city  clerk,  oppressed  by  the  deadly  monotony 
and  narrowness  of  his  life,  thinks  of  going  to  Australia — and 
doesn't  go:  that  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  the  action. 
Also,  by  way  of  underplot,  a  shopgirl,  oppressed  by  the  deadly 
monotony  and  narrowness  of  her  life,  thinks  of  escaping  it 
by  marrying  a  middle-aged  widower  —  and  doesn't  do  it." 

A  minute  but  sympathetic  observation  of  everyday  life  is 
the  basis  of  Elizabeth  Baker's  success  as  a  dramatist.  In 
"Miss  Tassey",  as  in  "Chains",  the  audience  is  offered  the 
spectacle  of  human  aspiration  and  human  disillusion. 


306  MISS  TASSEY 


PLAYS 

*Beastly  Pride  (1907)  The  Price  of  Thomas  Scott 
Chains  (1909)  (1913) 

*Miss  Tassey  (1910)  Over  a  Garden  Wall  (1915) 

*Cupid  in  Clapham  (1910)  Miss  Robinson  (1920) 
*Edith  (1912) 

"Chains"  is  published  by  John  W.  Luce  and  Company, 
Boston;  "Miss  Tassey",  "The  Price  of  Thomas  Scott",  and 
"Miss  Robinson"  by  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London. 

References:  William  Archer,  "Playmaking",  Small,  May- 
nard  and  Company,  Boston. 

Magazines:  The  Bookman,  vol.  xxxvi,  p.  640,  and  vol. 
xxxii,  p.  136,  New  York. 


MISS  TASSEY 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


By  ELIZABETH  BAKER 


'Miss  Tassey"  was  first  produced  at  London  in  1910. 

Characters 


Of  Messrs.  Trimmer 


Miss  Tassey 

Miss  Limerton 

Miss  Rose  Clifton 

Miss  Postlewaite 

Sarah Dormitory  maid 

Scene:  Bedroom  No.  65. 
Between  nine  and  ten  o'clock. 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Sidgwick:  and  Jackson,  Ltd. 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author,  and  the  publisher  (Sidgwick  and  Jackson, 
Ltd.) 


MISS  TASSEY 

A  dormitory  at  Messrs.  Trimmers'.  Three  beds  only,  of  the 
ordinary  hospital  cot  pattern:  two  side  by  side  behind  the  door, 
the  third  with  its  foot  towards  them,  the  head  being  almost  hid- 
den in  a  recess.  Floor  covered  with  brown  oilcloth.  Three 
washhand- stands  in  a  row  on  left.  One  dressing-table  under 
window  right.  Another  at  corner  left.  A  card  of  rules  hangs 
on  wall.  Window  is  curtainless,  with  Venetian  blinds  half- 
drawn.  Photographs  are  hanging  over  the  two  beds  facing  — 
photographs  of  young  men.  A  gas-bracket  with  a  frosted  globe 
in  wall  left. 

Someone  is  in  the  bed  in  the  corner,  apparently  asleep.    The 
Maid  enters  rather  noisily  and  looks  round.     A  voice  speaks 
from  the  bed  very  faintly,  but  only  just  makes  a  sound. 
maid  (familiarly).     Did  you  speak,  miss?     (Listens,  but  there 
is  no  reply.     She  goes  to  door.     There  is  a  faint  sound 
again)     What  is  it,  miss?     Do  you  want  anything?    (No 
answer.     Impatiently  she  crosses  over  to  the  bed)    Did  you 
speak? 
miss  tassey  (faintly).     Open  the  window,  please. 

[Maid,  opens  the  window  noisily,  then  goes  out,  banging  the 
door  carelessly.  Miss  Tassey  sinks  further  into  the  bed- 
clothes. There  is  a  long  sigh,  and  the  stage  is  silent  for  a 
minute  or  so.  Suddenly  the  door  is  flung  open,  and  Rose 
Clifton  and  Miss  Postlewaite  come  in.  Rose  is  a  pretty  girl 
with  a  quantity  of  fair,  fluffy  hair,  and  a  habit  of  giggling. 
Miss  Postlewaite  is  obviously  older,  showy,  and  rough- 
mannered.  They  are  both  in  black  shop  dresses,  and  Rose 
carries  a  paper  parcel.  They  are  wearing  heavily  trimmed 
hats,  and  Miss  Postlewaite  unpins  hers  as  she  comes  in. 
rose.  Wasn't  that  man  funny?  (Catching  sight  of  the  oc- 
cupied bed  and  dropping  her  voice)  Oh,  bother,  Possie, 
she's  in,  after  all. 


310  MISS  TASSEY 


miss  postlewaite.  So  she  is;  another  of  her  headaches. 
Got  a  headache,  Tassey?  (No  answer)  She's  off,  my 
dear.     It's  my  belief  she  often  has  a  headache  purposely. 

rose.     What  do  you  mean? 

miss  postlewaite.  She  takes  drugs,  my  dear.  Her  head- 
ache powders,  indeed!  (Goes  over  to  Miss  Tassey  and  lis- 
tens)    She's  fair  gone,  like  a  nail. 

rose.  You  don't  really  think  she  takes  them  when  she 
hasn't  got  a  headache,  do  you?     That's  wicked. 

miss  postlewaite.  Who  says  so?  Let  her  sleep,  poor  old 
thing!     I  should  take  opium  if  I  were  her. 

rose.  It  is  a  nuisance  for  her  to  be  in  now.  She  said  she 
was  going  out. 

miss  postlewaite.  Oh,  put  your  dress  on  and  let's  see  it. 
She  won't  hear  you.  She  won't  hear  anything  till  to- 
morrow morning. 

rose.     You're  sure  she  won't  wake  up? 

miss  postlewaite.  What  if  she  did?  Who's  she  to  say 
anything? 

rose.     She's  preachy. 

miss  postlewaite.  She  doesn't  preach  to  you.  I  never 
heard  her. 

rose.  She  looks  it.  She'd  look  it  now  if  she  saw  me  dressed 
up. 

miss  postlewaite.  Don't  think  about  her.  Think  of 
Percy  over  there.  He's  looking  at  you.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  dressing  up  in  front  of  a  young  man. 

rose  (giggling).  Possie,  how  can  you!  Wasn't  that  young 
man  in  the  shop  too  awful?     Did  you  see  him  making  eyes? 

miss  postlewaite.  Didn't  I  see  you!  You've  got  to  take 
care,  my  girl,  with  those  eyes  of  yours.  I  shall  tell  Percy 
about  you. 

rose  (tossing  her  head  as  she  opens  her  parcel  and  displays  a 
pair  of  scarlet  slippers).  I  don't  care.  I  say,  Possie,  do 
you  think  they'll  find  out  to-morrow  night? 

miss  postlewaite.  No,  why  should  they?  Haven't  I  done 
it  heaps  of  times?     I'll  ruffle  your  bed,  but  mind  you  get 


MISS  TASSEY  311 


back  in  good  time.     Try  and  come  in  as  if  you'd  been  for 

a  walk  in  the  gardens. 
rose.     I  was  so  awfully  frightened  last  time  for  fear  I'd  be 

caught. 
miss  postlewaite.     Walk  in  offhand  and  say  good-morning 

to  Miss  Mason  if  you  meet  her.     {Laughing  noisily)    Talk 

about  the  weather.     Oh,   you  don't   know  half   how  to 

manage  it! 
rose.     It  was  the  first  time  I'd  slept  out.     I  should  get  such 

a  wigging  if  they  found  out  at  home. 
miss  postlewaite.     Well,  if  you're  found  out,  serve  you 

right.     It's   easy    enough.     It's   worth   a    risk,    anyway, 

ain't  it? 
rose.     Rather.     Think,  Possie,  this  time  to-morrow  night. 

(Stops  suddenly,  as  there  is  a  sigh  from  the  corner  bed)    Did 

you  hear?     She'd  tell. 
miss  postlewaite.     What  an  infant  you  are!     (Goes  over  to 

bed)     It's  nothing,  I  tell  you.     She's  far  away  on  blue 

mountains  now.  Besides,  she  wouldn't  tell  if  she  did  know. 
rose.     I  believe  she  would.     She  thinks  I'm  too  young  to 

go  out  with  Percy  like  this.     She  told  me  so. 
miss  postlewaite.     What  does  she  know  about  it?     She 

never  went  out  with  a  fellow  in  her  life,  I'll  swear. 
rose  (giggling).     Fancy  Miss  Tassey  (lowering  her  voice)  at 

a  dance!     Can't  you  see  her?     Oh  my! 

[She  goes  to  a  drawer  and  is  about  to  pick  out  a  dress,  when 

the  door  opens  and  the  Maid  comes  in. 
miss  postlewaite.     I  didn't  hear  you  knock,  Sarah. 
sarah.     Well,  miss,  I  did.     Miss  Clifton,  you've  been  sleep- 
ing out  without  a  permit. 
rose  (taken  completely  back,  stammeritig) .     I — er — what  do 

you  mean? 
sarah.     You  slept  out  on  Tuesday  night  without  a  permit. 
miss  postlewaite.     Who's  been  telling  tales  like  that  to  you? 
sarah.     Never  mind  how  I  know.     You  did,  Miss  Clifton, 

didn't  you? 
rose.     Sarah,  don't  be  cross,  and  let  me  off  this  time. 


312  MISS  TASSEY 


Sarah.     It's  against  the  rules,  miss,  and  that  you  know; 

and  you'd  better  not  start  that  sort  of  thing.     I  must  re- 
port you. 
rose.     Miss  Tassey  told  you. 
sarah.     Never  mind  about  that.     You  can't  take  me  in  in 

this  house.     I  shall  report  to  Mr.  Frederick  to-morrow 

morning. 

[Goes. 
miss  postlewaite  (laughing  softly).     Never  take  her  in  in 

this  house !     Oh ,  my  word ! 
rose.     You  didn't  say  anything  for  me,  Possie. 
miss  postlewaite.     What  could  I  say,  you  chicken?     You 

gave  it  away  with  your  baby  face. 
rose.     What  could  I  say,  when  she  asked  me  out  straight? 
miss  postlewaite.     Lots.     You're  only  a  young  bird  yet. 
rose.     But  I  couldn't  have  told  a  —  a  —  could  I,  Possie? 
miss  postlewaite.     My  dear,  you'll  never  get  much  fun  in 

life  if  you  go  on  like  that. 
rose.     But  —  a  lie,  Possie.     Why,  you  wouldn't  tell  —  one 

(looks  toivards  corner  bed,  whispering)  — you  wouldn't  your- 
self, would  you?     Something  would  happen  to  me  if  I  did. 
miss  postlewaite.     Then  you're  not  going  out  with  Percy 

to-morrow  night? 
rose.     Oh,  I  must.     Why  shouldn't  I? 
miss  postlewaite.     Are  you  going  to  ask  Mr.  Frederick  for 

a  permit  when  you  go  to  him  to-morrow? 
rose.     Oh,  Possie,  I'd  forgotten  that;  and  the  dance  doesn't 

begin  till  nearly  ten,  and  I  have  to  be  back  by  eleven. 

What  shall  I  do? 
miss   postlewaite.     You   can't   do   anything   except   stay 

here. 
rose.     I  won't  stay  here;  I  will  go.     It's  all  the  fault  of  that 

(lowering  her  voice)  Miss  Tassey.     She's  a  preachy  old  cat. 

Why  doesn't  she  go  into  some  other  room?     We  don't 

want  her  here. 
miss  postlewaite  (looking  towards  bed).     She's  never  split 

on  me. 


MISS  TASSEY  313 


rose.     No,  she  wouldn't  on  you.     It's  me  she's  afraid  of. 

She  says  I'm  young.     It  isn't  her  business  if  I  am.     I  can 

take  care  of  myself.     I  wish  we  hadn't  got  an  old  thing 

like  her  in  our  room. 
miss  postlewaite  (laughing).     I  don't  suppose  she  finds  it 

beer  and  skittles  with  us.     She'd  go  pretty  quick  if  she 

got  a  chance. 
rose.     How  old  is  she? 
miss   postlewaite.     Oh,    I   don't   know — something   over 

forty.     She's  getting  too  old  for  counter-work. 
rose.     So    I    think.     She    hobbles    about    the   shop,    and 

she  wears  mittens.      They  call   her   "Mittens"   in   her 

shop. 
miss  postlewaite.     I  know.     She'll  get  the  sack  soon.  Poor 

old  thing! 
rose.     Do  you  think  she  will?     I  wish  she'd  go. 
miss  postlewaite.     They  sacked  three  last  week  younger 

than  her.     (Affecting  jocularity)     I  shall  have  to  look  out, 

or  I  shall  go  next. 
rose  (thoughtlessly).     How  old  are  you? 
miss  postlewaite  (sharply).     Never  you  mind.     So  you're 

not  going  with  Percy? 
rose  (after  a  moment's  sullen  pause).     Yes,  I  shall.     (De- 
fiantly)    I  won't  care  for  anybody.     It's  too  bad,  because 

of  an  old  woman  like  that,  to  stop  my  fun.     I  will  go. 

They  couldn't  have  found  out  from  the  bed,  could  they? 

Why  didn't  old  Tassey  have  a  headache  to-morrow  night? 

That  would  have  been  useful  then.     (Giggles)     It's  just 

like  her  to  have  it  at  the  wrong  time.     (Takes  out  her  dress 

from  the  drawer  and  shakes  it  out.     It  is  a  scarlet  and  white 

pierette's  frock,    very    short    and  fluffy)     Isn't    it    sweet? 

[Turning  her  head  to  look  at  the  corner  bed,  and  then  standing 

so  as  to  hide  the  frock  from  it. 
miss  postlewaite.     And  short.     Mind  you  wear  plenty  of 

petticoats. 
rose.     Possie! 
miss  postlewaite.     You'll  want  them  in  the  lancers. 


314  MISS  TASSEY 


rose.  Possie!  (taking  out  scarlet  gloves  and  white  hat  with 
scarlet  pompoms)  Look!  Everything  to  match.  I  do 
love  them. 

miss  postlewaite  (picking  up  shoes).  And  the  shoes — where 
are  the  stockings? 

rose  (shaking  out  a  pair  of  scarlet  and  white  stripe  stockings 
with  scarlet  bows  at  top).     Here! 

miss  postlewaite.  My  word !  are  you  going  to  kick  as  high 
as  that? 

rose.  How  awful  you  are!  Of  course  not;  but  it's  the 
thing  to  wear  with  it. 

miss  postlewaite.  It's  regal.  What  did  you  want  me  to 
do  with  it? 

rose.  It's  rather  big  here.  (Touching  her  waist)  Just  take 
it  in  for  me  a  little,  will  you? 

miss  postlewaite.     Better  put  it  on,  then,  and  let  me  see. 

rose.  All  right.  (Turns  back  to  her  bed  and  glances  at  cor- 
ner)    Suppose  she  should  wake! 

miss  postlewaite  (easily).  She  won't,  silly.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  hang  my  mask  from  the  bracket 
and  swing  it  over  a  chair  in  front  of  her.  Then,  if  she 
wakes,  we'll  tell  her  we  were  afraid  for  the  light  on  her  eyes. 
[Laughs. 

rose.  Yes,  do.  A  horrid  old  thing  she  is,  to  go  and  give 
me  away! 

[Miss  Postlewaite  hangs  a  dark  cloak  over  the  gas-bracket  and 
over  a  chair,  so  that  it  screens  the  corner  bed.  Meantime 
Rose  has  slipped  off  her  black  dress,  and  is  seen  in  petticoat 
and  bodice.  She  has  been  at  back  of  stage  near  her  bed.  Miss 
Postlewaite  comes  over  to  her  with  the  dress,  which  she  slips 
on  and  walks  over  to  the  mirror  on  left. 

rose.  Can't  see.  (Crosses  to  right,  then  suddenly  stops. 
Gives  a  little  scream)     Possie! 

miss  postlewaite.     What's  up? 

rose  (pointing  to  black-draped  corner).  That!  It's — it's 
horrid — so — she  is  so  quiet.     I 

miss  postlewaite.      Rubbish.      (Looking  curiously)      It's 


MISS  TASSEY  315 


something  like  a  bed  in  a  hospital,  when  there's  going  to 
be  an  operation,  isn't  it? 

rose.     You're  sure  —  she's  asleep? 

miss  postlewaite  (impatiently).  Of  course.  Come,  let  me 
do  you  up. 

[Sta?ids  behind  her  while  she  fastens  her  dress.     Rose  gives 
little  involuntary  glances  at  the  corner. 

rose.     She  sleeps  awfully  quiet,  doesn't  she? 

miss  postlewaite  {laughing  gently).  What  do  you  want  her 
to  do?     Snore? 

rose  (refusing  to  smile).  It's  the  —  powders,  isn't  it?  (Wail- 
ing)    I  do  wish  she  wasn't  in  our  room ! 

miss  postlewaite.  What  a  baby  you  are !  Come  over  here 
and  put  on  the  hat.  (They  cross  the  room,  and  Rose  appears 
to  forget.  She  puts  the  hat  on  at  a  saucy  angle)  Wait  till 
Percy  sees  you  in  that !     Only  don't  let  him  crush  it. 

rose  (embarrassed).     Possie,  how  you  talk! 

miss  postlewaite.  Well,  he  might  want  to.  Turn  up  your 
petticoat. 

rose  (intently  regarding  herself  in  looking-glass).  It  does  suit 
me,  doesn't  it?     Where  are  the  stockings? 

miss  postlewaite.     Here. 

[Rose  sits  sideways  to  stage  front,  but  back  to  the  draped  cor- 
ner, while  Miss  Postlewaite  kneels  and  puts  on  the  stockings. 

rose.  Do  you  think  old  Tassey  ever  went  to  a  fancy-dress 
dance? 

miss  postlewaite.     Shouldn't  wonder. 

rose.  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  she  could.  Do  you  think  she 
ever  had  a 

miss  postlewaite.     Percy?     Perhaps  —  most  likely. 

rose.     She  doesn't  look  like  it. 

miss  postlewaite.     Neither  will  you  when  you're  forty-five. 

rose.     Forty -five  —  oh,  what  an  age ! 

miss  postlewaite.     Just  you  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 

rose  (coquettishly) .     I  don't  want  to  be  married  yet. 

miss  postlewaite.  My  advice  is,  take  him  while  you  can 
get  him. 


31G  MISS  TASSEY 


rose.     Percy  isn't  the  only  one. 

miss  postlewaite.  There  are  plenty  of  'em,  but  they  don't 
always  ask  you.  Plenty  of  flirts  in  the  world,  and  don't 
you  forget  it.     You  be  Mrs.  Percy,  Rosey,  when  you  can. 

rose  (confused).  Oh,  Possie,  I  couldn't!  (There  is  a  minute 
of  silence  while  Miss  Postlewaite  puts  on  the  scarlet  shoes. 
Rose  tries  to  look  behind  her)     Isn't  the  room  quiet? 

miss  postlewaite.  That  seems  to  worry  you.  Shall  we  go 
down  to  the  sitting-room? 

rose.     I  wonder  why  old  Tassey  never  married? 

miss  postlewaite.  As  I've  been  saying  to  you,  not  to  do  — 
she  probably  missed  her  chance. 

rose  (shivering).     Isn't  this  dress  low? 

miss  postlewaite.     Not  too  low  for  Percy. 

rose.  Possie!  You're  too  awful  for  anything.  The  win- 
dow's open. 

miss  postlewaite  (rising).     I'll  shut  it. 

rose  (hastily).  No,  don't  —  don't  make  a  noise.  You  might 
wake  her. 

miss  postlewaite.     Nonsense. 

[Climbs  up  and  shids  the  window  with  a  bang.  Rose  stands 
staring  at  the  draped  corner  and  as  Miss  Postlewaite  steps 
down  there  is  a  distinct  pause. 

rose  (in  a  whisper).     You  shouldn't. 

miss  postlewaite  (also  in  a  whisper).  Don't  be  a  little  fool. 
(Aloud)     What  on  earth  is  wrong  with  you? 

rose.     Look  and  see  —  if  she's  awake. 

miss  postlewaite  (stepping  forward,  but  pausing).  I'm  not 
going  to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Sarah  has  upset  you, 
Rosey,  and  no  mistake.  Come  over  here.  (She  drags 
Rose  over  to  left,  and  examines  the  fastening.  Pulling  the 
dress)     Can  you  bear  it  as  tight  as  that? 

rose  (panting).     Oh  —  no! 

miss  postlewaite.  Nothing  as  tight  as  Percy  will  squeeze 
you.     How's  that? 

rose.     That's  better. 

miss  postlewaite  (meditating).     I  must  take  it  in  three- 


MISS  TASSEY  317 


quarters  of  an  inch  there,  and  graduate  it  down.     That  will 
be  all  right. 

rose  (hesitating).  What  kind  of  powders  does  old  Tassey 
take? 

miss  postlewaite.  There  you  are  again!  (Still  at  the  dress 
fastening)  Breathe  in,  Rosey.  Powders?  Oh,  I  forget. 
Something  "ichine,"  or  something  like  that. 

rose.     They  must  be  very  strong. 

miss  postlewaite.  If  you  once  take  those  things,  you've 
got  to  keep  on  doing  it.     They  lose  their  power  in  no  time. 

rose.  I  should  have  thought  she  would  have  started  when 
you  banged  the  window. 

miss  postlewaite.  I  didn't  bang  it.  I  shut  it  in  the  or- 
dinary way.  If  you're  as  nervy  as  this  to-morrow  night 
you'll  frighten  Percy  off.  Then  there's  another  chance 
gone. 

rose  (suddenly  turning  and  taking  Miss  Postlewaite' s  arm). 
You  don't  think,  do  you,  that  Tassey  (whispering)  is  pre- 
tending, just  listening  to  us  and  then 

miss  postlewaite.  What  an  idea!  If  you  don't  stand  still, 
how  can  I  fit  the  thing  properly?  Do  keep  quiet.  Why 
on  earth  should  she  listen?     What  is  there  to  hide? 

rose.  About  my  sleeping  out  —  I  never  thought  of  it  be- 
fore. That's  what  she's  doing.  Go  and  shake  her, 
Possie,  and  see. 

miss  postlewaite.  You  stupid,  you!  (Rose  breaks  away 
from  her,  and  steps  forward  towards  the  corner.  She  stops 
suddenly,  however,  and  there  is  silence)  Go  and  shake  her 
yourself  if  you  don't  believe  me.  I  tell  you,  she's  dead 
asleep  with  that  stuff.     I  know. 

rose.     She  —  Possie.     I  wish 

[The  door  opens  quietly,  and  Miss  Limerton,  a  tall  girl 
dressed  for  walking,  comes  in.     Neither  of  them  hear  her. 

miss  limerton.     Is  Miss  Tassey (Rose  interrupts  with 

a  scream. 

miss  postlewaite  (turning  quickly).     Oh  —  you! 

miss  limerton.     What's  the  matter  with  Miss  Clifton? 


318  MISS  TASSEY 


rose.     You  —  made  me  jump.     I  didn't  hear  you. 

miss  limerton.     What  on  earth  are  you  decked  out  like 

that  for? 
rose.     It's  a  dress  for  a  ball  I'm  going  to. 
miss  limerton.     Gay,  isn't  it?     Not  to  say  snippy.     Is  Miss 

Tassey (Stops  at  sight  of  the  bed  in  shadow)   Is  she  ill? 

miss  postlewaite.     Another  headache. 

rose.     She's  been  taking  a  powder. 

miss  limerton.     Headache?     I  didn't  know  she  had  one.     I 

saw  her  after  shop. 
miss  postlewaite.     Well,  she's  got  it  since.     She's  been  in 

bed  hours. 
rose.     I  don't  believe  she  had  a  headache,  Possie.     Miss 

Limerton  says  she  hadn't.     She's  pretending,  and  she'll 

tell  of  me. 
miss  postlewaite.     Shut  up,  you  little  fool !     (To  Miss  Lim- 
erton)    She  will  have  it  that  Tassey  isn't  asleep  and  is 

listening. 
miss  limerton.     What  have  you  been  doing,  Rosey,  that 

you're  so  uncomfortable? 
rose.     Only  —  only  —  trying  on  this   (looking  down  at  her 

dress). 
miss   limerton.     I    should   think   the    sight    would    make 

Tassey 's  head  good. 
miss  postlewaite.     You  can  tell  the  truth  to  Limerton, 

Rosey.     (To  Miss  Limerton)     She  has  been  caught  sleep- 
ing out,  and  she  thinks  Tassey  told.     And  she's  going  to 

sleep  out  again  to-morrow. 
rose.     S'sh ! 
miss  limerton.     Well,  if  you  take  that  conscience  to  the 

dance  you  won't  enjoy  yourself  much.      Besides,  Tassey 

wouldn't  tell. 
rose.     You  don't  know  her.     She  wouldn't  tell  of  you  and 

Possie.     She  would  about  me. 
miss  limerton.     See  how  she  loves  you  and  looks  after  your 

morals.     (They  all  keep  involuntarily,  as  it  were,  farthest 

from  the  corner  bed)     It's  funny  I  didn't  know  she  had  a 


MISS  TASSEY  319 


headache.     When  she  does  have  them  they  usually  come 

on  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  can  hardly  walk. 
miss  postlewaite.  She's  too  old  for  the  work. 
miss  limerton.     She  went  out  quickly  afterwards,  and  I 

met  her  later  as  I  came  back  from  the  hairdresser's. 
miss  postlewaite.     Did  you  try  Grigano? 
miss  limerton.     Yes.     He  did  it  very  well.     Look  how  he's 

dressed  it.     (She  takes  off  her  hat  and  displays  an  elaborate 

coiffure)     I  wish  I  could  do  it  like  that. 
miss  postlewaite.     That's  not  a  difficult  style.     I'll  come 

and  show  you  sometime,  if  you  like. 
miss  limerton.     Do.     (Glancing  towards  corner)     What  a 

difference  it  makes  in  a  room  if  there's  someone  ill  in  it. 
rose.     She's  always  ill.     The  room's  always  quiet. 
miss  limerton.     The  headache  must  have  come  on  quickly. 

It's  her  news,  of  course. 
miss  postlewaite.     What  news? 
miss  limerton.     Didn't  she  tell  you? 
miss  postlewaite.     Got  the  sack  at  last? 
miss  limerton.     Yes.     I  wanted  to  see  her  about  it.     Poor 

old  thing! 
miss  postlewaite.    Poor  old  thing!    What  will  she  do? 
rose.     Is  she  going  to  leave?     (To  Miss  Limerton)   Will  you 

come  to  this  room? 

MISS  LIMERTON.       I  might. 

miss  postlewaite.     Do  try.     Come  and  help  me  with  this 

child.     I'm  sick  of  her  eternal  Percy. 

[Miss  Limerton  smiles  at  Rosey,  who  disregards  it. 
miss  limerton.     I  wanted  to  ask  Tassey  what  she  will  do. 

She  hasn't  any  friends  (they  all  look  towards  the  corner  and 

pause)  nor  relations. 
miss  postlewaite.     Where  did  she  go  Sundays? 
miss  limerton.     Stayed  here. 

miss  postlewaite.    Stayed  here!    Lively!    Poor  old  thing! 
miss  limerton.     What  can  she  do?     She  can't  have  any 


money. 
miss  postlewaite.     Didn't  she  insure? 


320  MISS  TASSEY 


miss  limerton.     I  expect  so,  but  it  wouldn't  keep  her  long. 

She'll  have  to  go  into  one  room  for  a  bit,  and  then 

miss  postlewaite.   And  then {They  glance  at  the  corner 

bed)     Poor  old  thing! 
miss  limerton.     I  wonder  she  wasn't  tempted  to  take  too 

much. 

[Stops. 
miss  postlewaite.     She  will  one  of  these  days.     She'll  do 

it  with  those  drugs  of  hers. 
rose  (irritably).     Why  don't  you  speak  louder? 
miss  limerton.     Are  you  sure  she  takes  drugs? 
miss  postlewaite.     Positive.     I  found  her  out  one  day. 

She's   been   taking    some   to-night.     I   knew   it   when   I 

looked  at  her. 
miss  limerton  (hesitating).     You  have  been  and  looked? 
miss  postlewaite.     Yes. 

miss  limerton.     I  didn't  know  she  kept  drugs  in  her  box. 
miss  postlewaite.     She  knows  all  about  them,  too. 
miss  limerton.     She  —  listen. 

[Puts  up  her  hand. 
rose  (terrified).     What  is  it? 
miss  postlewaite.     Listen  to  what? 
miss  limerton.     You  can't  hear  her  breathing? 

miss  postlewaite.     How  should  you 

rose.     I  said  she  was  putting  it  on.     She  always  breathes 

louder  than  that. 

[They  listen.   Rose  shivers,  and  Miss  Limerton  rises. 
miss  limerton  (looking  at  Miss  Postlewaite,  who  rises  also). 

You  don't  think 

[They  both  step  forward,  and  Miss  Postlewaite  goes  farther 

than  her  companion.   They  both  pause.   The  room  is  very  still. 
rose  (clinging  close  to  Miss  Limerton).     She  is  asleep,  isn't 

she?     Possie  said (Miss  Limerton  takes  no  notice  of 

her  as  the  two  elder  girls  go  nearer)     Don't  —  don't  —  keep 

away!     Oh,  what  is  it? 
miss  postlewaite  (moving  back  and  speaking  in  an  angry 

whisper).     Shut  up! 


MISS  TASSEY  321 


rose.     She's  listening.     I  know  she  is. 

[With  an  evident  effort  Miss  Postlewaite  steps  behind  the 
draped  chair.  She  paitses,  and  Miss  Limerton  and  Rose,  the 
latter  clinging  to  her  companion,  wait  in  a  dead  silence.  Miss 
Postlewaite  steps  forward  and  is  hidden.  Rose  buries  her 
face  and  gasps  hysterically.  After  a  moment  or  two  Miss 
Postlewaite  comes  into  the  room  rather  quickly.  Miss  Limer- 
ton looks  at  her,  but  no  word  passes.  Rose  looks  terrified  from 
one  to  the  other. 

miss  limerton.     I'll  go  for  Miss  Mason  or  Sarah. 

miss  postlewaite  (unable  to  stand  without  trembling,  sits  down 
dizzily) .     She  —  it  all  happened 

rose  (hysterically).  What  is  it?  Is  she  —  what  is  the 
matter? 

miss  postlewaite  (shaking  her  arm  roughly).  Can't  you  be 
quiet  now?  (Rose  looks  helplessly  at  her,  incongruous  in 
her  scarlet  finery)     Don't  you  understand? 

rose.     She  wasn't  asleep  all  the  time  —  she  wasn't  —  she  was 

—  she  was (Bursts  into  gasping  sobs)     And  all  the 

while  —  and  I  was  talking  like  that. 

miss  limerton  (gently).     Rose,  come,  there  is  nothing  to  fear. 

rose  (seizing  her  by  the  arm,  unable  to  control  herself,  yet  afraid 
to  scream  too  loud).  I  knew  she  heard  me;  I  knew  she  did. 
I  said  she  did.  She  wasn't  asleep.  And  I  was  wearing 
this  (fingering  her  dress),  and  laughing,  and  calling  her 

names,  and  all  the  while 

[Trails  into  sobs. 

miss  postlewaite.  Leave  her  with  me  —  or  I'll  take  her 
away. 

miss  limerton.     You  go  for  somebody.     I'll  stop  with  her. 
(Smoothing  Rose's  hair)     Rose. 
[Miss  Postlewaite  goes. 

rose.  I  said  how  quiet  it  was,  didn't  I?  I  knew  she 
wasn't  asleep,  but  I  thought  she  was  listening,  and  I  said 
she  was  going  to  tell  tales,  and  all  the  time 

miss  limerton.  S'sh!  it  didn't  matter.  She  doesn't  know 
what  you  said. 


322  MISS  TASSEY 


rose.     Do  you  think  she  doesn't?     Are  you  sure?     She  was 

so  quiet,  and  Possie  and  I  putting  on  this  {fingering  her 

dress  like  one  distraught)  and  laughing,  and  saying  she  was 

pretending. 
miss  limerton  {gently  taking  the  girl's  hand).     She  is  finished 

with  it  now.     Come  and  look  at  her,  and  then {Rose 

draws  back  shuddering)     She  looks  so  restful.     Come. 
rose   (refusing  to  move).     No,   no  —  no!     Don't    drag    me 

there   {looking   with  fearfid  curiosity  towards  the  corner) 

Did  she  take  it  —  herself? 
miss  limerton.     She  must  have  taken  an  overdose. 
rose  {unheeding).     She  took  it  herself;  and  all  the  while  — 

and  she  was  unhappy  —  and  I 

[Sarah,  the  maid,  enters  quickly,  followed  by  Miss  Postlewaite. 

She  goes  over  to  the  bed. 
miss  postlewaite  {in  low  tones  to  Miss  Limerton).     Miss 

Mason  is  out.     They've  gone  for  the  doctor.     [Rose,  fas- 
cinated, is  watching  the  corner. 
miss  limerton.     Come  away. 

[Sarah  steps  back,  and  Rose  falls  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed, 

quivering  and  sobbing  and  hiding  her  head.     Sarah  steps 

back  into  the  room  and  sees  her. 
sarah.     Take  her  out,  Miss  Limerton. 
rose  {stretching  her  arms  over  to  the  bed  towards  Sarah).     I 

said  she  —  she  {she  cannot  say  the  name)  told  you  about  me. 

I  didn't  mean  it.     I  thought 

sarah.     We  are  not  thinking  about  you  just  now.  Miss 

Clifton. 
miss  limerton.     Come,  Rose,  Sarah  understands. 
rose  {brokeyily  to  Miss  Limerton,  as  the  latter  leads  her  out). 

I  didn't  mean  anything.     I  said  she  listened  and  told  tales, 

and  all  the  time 

[They  go  out. 
sarah.     Draw  down  the  blind,  Miss  Postlewaite. 

[The  blind  is  drawn. 

curtain 


MAKESHIFTS 

GERTRUDE  ROBINS 

Gertrude  Robins,  who  died  in  1917,  was  better  known 
as  an  actress  than  as  a  dramatist.  Her  plays,  which  must 
have  been  the  products  of  her  leisure  time,  were  written 
to  fill  certain  definitely  felt  needs.  Miss  Robins  belongs, 
at  least  so  far  as  her  earlier  plays  are  concerned,  to  the 
"Manchester  School." 

"As  you  know,"  declared  Miss  Robins  (I  quote  from  an 
interview  in  The  Era  of  February  1,  1913),  "I  lead  a  very 
active  life,  and  my  interests  range  from  Small  Farming  and 
Aviation  —  yes,  I  have  had  two  Biplane  Gliders  built  for  me 
—  to  the  Art  of  the  Marionette.  I  have  written  several 
successful  one-act  plays.  My  village  comedy  'Pot-Luck' 
.  .  .  originally  played  by  Buckinghamshire  Players  (a 
body  of  local  amateurs  which  I  organized),  I  afterwards 
produced  at  the  Palace  Theatre.  .  .  .  'Pot-Luck'  is  still 
successfully  running  in  the  provinces.  Speaking  of  the  prov- 
inces, there  is,  I  think,  more  than  a  grain  of  truth  in  the 
adage:  'What  Manchester  thinks  today  London  does  to- 
morrow ',  for  it  was  in  Cottonopolis,  at  Miss  Horniman's 
Theatre,  that  my  early  plays  were  first  produced.  .  .  .  My 
one-act  play  'Makeshifts'  was  presented  before  that  clever 
play  'Hindle  Wakes',  at  the  Playhouse;  and  in  book  form 
it  has  already  reached  several  editions  ...  it  has  now  been 
played  over  a  thousand  times  in  Great  Britain,  Australia, 
and  Canada,  and  is  to  be  presented  in  America  by  Miss 
Horniman's  company.  ...  In  the  intervals  between  golf 
and  gardening,  acting  and  my  varied  literary  work,  I  con- 
tribute to  a  certain  London  Daily  articles  chiefly  relative  to 
Country  Life.    .    .    . 


324  MAKESHIFTS 


"A  few  years  ago  I  took  Honors  in  Modern  Languages 
at  Oxford.  My  mother  is  German  and  my  father  Irish;  and 
perhaps  this  blend  tended  to  induce  me,  at  an  early  age,  to 
take  life  seriously.  At  the  outset  I  thought  I  would  take  up 
one  of  the  learned  professions,  but  I  discovered  that  for  a 
woman  to  follow  such  a  career  the  drawbacks  of  sex  are 
strongly  defined.  I  ultimately  decided  that  the  theatrical 
profession  offered  a  wider  and  fairer  scope  for  a  woman's 
activities.  Hence  it  came  about  that,  through  the  kind 
offices  of  my  good  friend,  Miss  Lilian  McCarthy,  I  was  intro- 
duced to  the  late  Wilson  Barrett,  who  engaged  me  to  play 
in  his  Repertoire  Company  on  tour.  After  useful  '  schooling ' 
in  the  provinces  and  playing  lead  in  Wilson  Barrett's  last 
play,  '  Lucky  Durham ',  I  joined  Mr.  James  Welch,  and 
played  in  'When  Knights  Were  Bold'  at  Wyndham's.  Sub- 
sequently I  played  lead  with  Mr.  Granville  Barker  in  his 
daring  Anglo- Austrian  'Anatol'  sketches  at  the  Palace  and 
the  Little  Theatre.  I  lately  played  Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh's 
part  in  '  Rosalind '  upon  the  occasion  of  the  latter's  Command 
performance  at  Sandringham;  and,  now,  as  the  heroine  of 
that  merry  and  clever  farce,  '  Officer  666 ',  at  the  Globe,  I 
have  my  first  experience  of  acting  in  an  American  production. 
And,  after  all,  'Variety  is  the  spice  of  life',  and  the  pursuit 
of  experience  is  the  playwright's  prerogative." 


PLAYS 

*Makeshifts  (1908)  The  Home  Coming   (1912) 
*Realities  (1911)  Old  Jan  (1912) 

*Pot-Luck  (1911)  *Loving  as  We  Do  (1914) 
*Cupid  and  the  Mouse  (1911)        The  Plaything  (1914) 

*Van  Dam  of  Volendam  *The  Return  (1914) 

(1911)  *After  the  Case  (1914) 

*The  Point  of  View  (1910)  *'Ilda's  Honourable  (1914) 
*Lancelot   and   the   Leading 

Lady  (1911) 


MAKESHIFTS  325 


"Makeshifts"  and  "Realities"  are  published  together  by 
T.  Werner  Laurie,  London;  "Loving  as  We  Do  ",  "The  Re- 
turn", "After  the  Case",  and  "  'Ilda's  Honourable"  to- 
gether, as  "Loving  as  We  Do",  by  the  same;  and  "Pot- 
Luck"  by  Samuel  French,  New  York. 


MAKESHIFTS 

A  LOWER  MIDDLE-CLASS  COMEDY 


By  GERTRUDE  ROBINS 


"Makeshifts"  was  first  produced  at  Manchester  in  1908. 

Characters 

Caroline  Parker,  a  Suburban  young  woman  of  about  30. 
Nervous  mannerisms.  Brown  hair  much  frizzed.  Dressed 
in  a  mauve  silk  tight-fitting  blouse  and  dark-green  skirt 

Dolly  Parker,  her  younger  sister,  aged  28.  Wearing  a  dark 
blue  dress  with  cheap  lace  collar.  Inclined  to  brusquerie 
and  superficial  sharpness 

Mr.  Thompson,  the  Parkers'  lodger.  Chemists'  Assistant. 
Tall,  thin,  and  rather  shy 

Mr.  Albert  Smythe,  Stockjobber's  Clerk.  Short,  sandy- 
haired.  Moustache  with  waxed  ends,  shiny  face.  General 
blatant  appearance 


Reprinted  from  "Makeshifts"  and  " Realities  ",  published  by  T.  Werner  Laurie, 
London,  by  permission  of  the  executors  of  the  late  Gertrude  Robins. 

All  rights  of  "Makeshifts"  and  "Realities"  are  reserved. 

No  performance  of  these  plays  may  take  place  until  a  written  permission  has  been 
obtained. 

The  fee  for  each  and  every  amateur  representation  of  either  play  is  one  guinea. 
If  both  plays  are  performed  on  the  same  occasion  the  inclusive  fee  is  one  guinea  and 
a  half. 

Fees  payable  in  advance  to  Miss  Gertrude  Robins,  %  T.  Werner  Laurie,  Ltd., 
Clifford's  Inn,  London,  E.C. 


MAKESHIFTS 

The  Parkers'  sitting-room.  Large  table  right  centre.  Window 
left  with  small  table  and  ferns.  Lace  curtains,  and  canary  in 
cage.  Sideboard  up  right  with  cruet-stand,  biscuit-box,  silver 
teapot,  etc.  Chairs  round  centre  table.  Fireplace  back  left 
centre  with  overmantel,  mirror,  clock  and  ornaments.  Easy 
chairs  on  either  side  of  fireplace. 

Caroline  sewing  at  back  of  table  right.    Dolly  reading  novel- 
ette by  fire  left. 
Caroline.     You    didn't    forget    to    order    the    soap    from 

Brown's,  did  you,  Dolly? 
dolly.     No  —  I  mean  yes  —  I  did  order  it. 

[Pause. 
Caroline  (turning  lamp  up).     Did  you  tell  them  we  must 

have  it  by  nine? 
dolly  (impatient).     Oh  —  yes.     Don't  worry. 
Caroline.     It's  very  well  to  say  "Don't  worry",  but  you 
forget  Mrs.  Hunt's  coming  at  eight,  and  there's  an  awful 
lot  of  washing  this  time.     (Pause)     I  shall  have  to  get  up 
at  half-past  six  to  get  the  boiler  going  properly.     (Pause) 
Mrs.  Cox  called  this  afternoon. 
dolly.     Oh,  what  did  she  want? 

Caroline.     Nothing.     Only  wasted  my  time.     (Pause)    All 
her  pipes  burst  last  week  —  quite  spoilt  one  of  her  drawing- 
room  chairs,  she  says. 
dolly.     How  exciting. 

Caroline.     You  are  grumpy  to-night,  Dolly. 
dolly.     Well,  I'm  tired. 

Caroline.  So  am  I,  but  I  don't  see  that's  any  reason  for 
being  disagreeable.  (Pause)  Oh,  Dolly,  isn't  it  a  nuisance, 
we've  got  to  have  some  coal  in,  and  the  last  lot  aren't  paid 
for  yet,  and  they're  28s.  now. 


330  MAKESHIFTS 


dolly.  Well  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  use  the  fifteen 
shillings  I'd  saved  towards  a  new  jacket. 

Caroline.  I  wish  we  needn't  do  that.  You  haven't  had  a 
new  one  for  three  years. 

dolly.  What's  it  matter?  There's  no  one  to  notice  what 
I  wear. 

Caroline.  Well,  perhaps  you  might  lend  it,  and  then  I'll 
give  you  some  of  Mr.  Thompson's  money  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  and  when  Ma  gets  her  dividend  she  must  make 
up  the  rest.  (Pause)  Well,  then,  will  you  order  half  a 
ton  to-morrow? 

dolly.     All  right. 

Caroline.  Ma's  been  so  difficult  to-day,  she  quite  tired 
me  out. 

dolly.     Anything  fresh? 

Caroline.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She's  got  some  new  idea 
that  she's  being  neglected,  or  that  we  don't  confide  in  her 
or  something. 

dolly.  Well,  that's  better  than  when  she  gets  mopey  and 
retrospective,  and  talks  about  her  unhappy  past. 

Caroline.     Still,  Dolly,  she  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it. 

dolly.  Well,  haven't  we  all,  and  isn't  it  going  to  be  so 
world  without  end,  amen? 

Caroline.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  (Pause)  Oh,  Mrs. 
Cox  says  those  new  people  two  doors  off  are  an  awfully 
funny  lot.  (Dolly  puts  book  in  her  lap  and  listens)  They 
haven't  any  carpets,  and  they  don't  touch  butcher's 
meat,  and  their  servant  actually  has  her  meals  with  the 
family.  (Dolly  laughs)  Mrs.  Cox  thinks  they  must  be 
Socialists  or  Christian  Scientists.  There  are  some  funny 
people  in  the  world. 

dolly.  Yes,  aren't  there?  Why,  I  was  talking  to  that  new 
teacher  we've  got  to-day,  and,  my  dear,  if  you  please,  she's 
a  Suffragette. 

CAROLINE.      Oh ! 

dolly.  Of  course,  I  didn't  say  what  I  thought  of  them,  but 
she's  evidently  deadly  serious.     It  beats  me  how  people 


MAKESHIFTS  331 


can  make  such  idiots  of  themselves.  A  lot  of  good  a  vote 
would  be  to  me. 

Caroline.  But  I  think  there  may  be  something  in  it,  you 
know.  (Pause)  By-the-bye,  did  you  wash  up  the  tea- 
things,  Dolly? 

dolly.  Oh,  bother!  No.  I'll  do  it  when  I  get  Ma's  sup- 
per. (Putting  her  book  down  and  looking  up)  Gracious, 
why,  you've  changed  your  blouse.  (Meaningly)  I  didn't 
know  anyone  was  coming  this  evening. 

Caroline.  Don't  be  so  —  so  —  I  suppose  I  can  put  something 
fresh  on  if  I  like,  after  spending  the  whole  day  in  that 
stuffy,  pokey  kitchen,  stewing  over  the  hot  fire,  and  wash- 
ing up  greasy  saucepans!  I'd  just  like  you  to  try  it  for  a 
bit  and  see  how  you  like  it. 

dolly.  I  shouldn't  like  it  at  all,  my  dear.  But  then,  I 
don't  suppose  you'd  enjoy  seven  hours  a  day  with  a  lot  of 
horrid,  noisy,  fidgety  children  driving  you  mad.  Why, 
you'd  chuck  it  up  the  first  row  you  got  into  with  the 
Inspector. 

Caroline.     No.    I  expect  it  must  be  pretty  sickening. 

dolly.  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much  if  there  were  any  chance 
of  things  ever  being  different.  But  there's  nothing  to  look 
forward  to.  It  will  always  be  the  same.  (Looking  into 
fire)  I  shall  go  on  hammering  DOG  dog,  CAT  cat, 
and  twice  eleven  are  twenty-two,  and  twice  twelve  are 
twenty-four,  into  wooden-headed  brats,  and  you'll  be 
skivvy  and  housekeeper  combined,  and  look  after  Ma,  and 
wait  on  the  lodger,  and  scrape  and  contrive  to  make  both 
ends  meet,  till  we're  both  too  old  for  anything. 

Caroline.  Oh,  don't  be  so  depressing,  Doll.  It  gets  on 
my  nerves.  Besides,  you  never  know,  something  nice 
might  happen.  Why,  one  of  us  might  —  might  —  might 
even  get  married! 

dolly.  You  might,  you  mean.  Fat  lot  of  men  wanting  to 
marry  a  school-teacher !  Bless'm  —  they'd  be  afraid  they'd 
get  Euclid  instead  of  eggs  and  bacon  for  breakfast,  and 
that  their  buttons  would  never  be  sewn  on.     Oh,  no. 


332  MAKESHIFTS 


Men  fight  shy  of  girls  like  me.  They  think  we're  too 
clever;  they  like  nice,  domesticated,  homely  girls.  (Pause) 
Besides,  what  chance  do  we  have  of  ever  getting  to  know 
fellows?  We've  no  father  and  no  brothers.  How  should 
I  get  to  know  men  at  a  girls'  school,  or  you  sticking  at 
home  all  day?  Why,  we  don't  see  a  man  to  speak  to  from 
one  week's  end  to  another,  except  Mr.  Thompson.  And 
there's  precious  little  romance  about  our  lodger  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  even  though  he  is  a  chemist's  assistant. 

Caroline  (rising  and  putting  on  half-finished  blouse  which 
she  has  been  making).  Oh,  but  he's  a  godsend  to  us.  I 
don't  know  how  we  should  have  managed  the  rent  without 
his  thirteen  shillings  every  week.  (Crossing  over  towards 
fireplace)  Besides,  he's  nice  and  quiet  in  the  house,  and 
very  considerate,  and  he  doesn't  come  home  late  or  tipsy, 
like  anyone  else  we  might  have  got.  (After  trying  to  see 
back  of  blouse  in  glass)  Dolly,  you  might  just  tell  me  how 
this  fits  on  the  shoulder.  (Dolly  rises)  It's  such  a  bother. 
(Looking  into  mirror  over  fire)  I'm  afraid  I've  cut  the  neck 
out  too  far;  I  shall  have  to  join  a  bit  on,  or  put  some  lace 
over  it. 

dolly  (standing  and  adjusting  back  of  blouse).     No,  it  only 
wants  taking  up  a  little.     Give  me  a  pin. 
[Noise  of  door  banging  slightly  heard  off  right. 

Caroline  (starting).  Who's  that?  (Turning  round  to  face 
Dolly)     It  isn't  eight,  is  it? 

dolly  (meaningly).  It's  only  Mr.  Thompson  —  who  else  do 
you  think  it  is?  (Gentle  tap  at  door)  There  he  is.  Bother. 
(Loudly)     Come  in! 

Caroline.  But  I  can't  be  seen  like  this!  For  goodness 
sake 

dolly.  Thompson  doesn't  count.  You  needn't  worry 
about  him.     (Loudly)     Come  in ! 

Thompson  (entering  nervously  right.    Pauses  just  inside  door). 
Good-evening,  Miss  Caroline;  (pause)  good-evening,  Miss 
Dolly.     (Pause)     Busy  as  usual. 
[With  a  nervous  smile. 


MAKESHIFTS  333 


Caroline  {very  politely).  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Thompson,  there  is 
always  something  to  do.     Won't  you  sit  down? 

Thompson  (hastily).  Oh,  no,  I'm  afraid  —  I  —  I  don't 
think  I  can,  thank  you.  I'm  —  er  —  just  going  out 
again  to  the  post,  and  —  er  —  I've  —  er  —  promised 
to  help  Mr.  Standing  at  the  dispensary  this  evening. 
(Pause)  It's  left  off  raining.  I've  just  taken  the  liberty 
of  bringing  you  ladies  a  few  sweets.  I  hope  you  won't 
mind. 
[Edges  bag  of  sweets  on  to  table. 

Caroline.  Oh,  but,  Mr.  Thompson,  you  shouldn't;  really, 
you're  too  good.  (Dolly  sits  again  with  her  book)  But 
thank  you  very  much,  all  the  same.  It  is  kind  of  you  — 
isn't  it,  Dolly? 

dolly.     Yes,  very.     Thanks  awfully. 
[Still  reading. 

Thompson  (nervously,  gazing  at  Caroline).     Oh,  not  at  all. 
I  hope  they're  the  sort  you  like.     (Backing  to  door  right) 
Good  night  —  good  night. 
[Exits  awkwardly  right. 

dolly.     Oh,  that  man  is  a  trial  —  he  does  worry  me. 

Caroline  (crossing  to  Dolly  with  sweets).  Well,  I  don't 
suppose  you'll  be  above  eating  his  sweets.  There  aren't 
so  many  men  who  take  the  trouble  to  give  us  things,  any- 
how. 

[Crossing  back  to  table  right  centre,  she  sits  down  to  work  on 
blouse  again. 

dolly.     Give  you  things,  you  mean. 

Caroline.  Don't  be  so  snappy,  for  goodness  sake.  Look 
at  that  lovely  pencil-case  Mr.  Phillips  gave  you  at  Easter. 
You  know  you  were  awfully  pleased  about  it. 

dolly.  Yes,  and  I've  never  heard  the  last  about  it  from 
you  and  Ma  since.  There's  a  fat  lot  of  excitement  about 
a  present  from  a  Sunday-School  superintendent,  isn't 
there? 
Caroline.  Oh,  Dolly,  you  are  always  so  discontented. 
We  do  know  some  nice  people  after  all. 


334  MAKESHIFTS 


dolly.  I  like  your  idea  of  some  nice  people.  A  tame 
chemist's  assistant  who's  our  lodger,  and  a  bald-headed 
Sunday-School  superintendent. 

Caroline.  But,  Dolly,  you  haven't  —  you  didn't — you're 
not  reckoning  —  why,  you've  forgotten  —  there's  Mr. 
Smythe. 

dolly.  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Anyway,  you're  not  likely  to 
forget  him. 

Caroline.  Well,  he's  something,  isn't  he?  And  I  expect 
we  shall  get  to  know  some  of  his  friends. 

dolly.     We!     [Sniffs. 

Caroline.  Oh,  by  the  way,  shall  we  have  some  coffee  to- 
night if  he  —  I  mean  Mr.  Smythe  —  should  happen  to  drop 
in?     It  would  be  rather  nice. 

dolly.     Oh,  then  you  are  expecting  someone. 

Caroline.  Oh,  I'm  not  certain  —  something  was  said  about 
it.  (She  leaves  off  serving  and  turns  round  to  her  sister  to 
talk  to  her)  But,  Dolly,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
sharp  with  him  if  he  does  come;  it  isn't  nice  of  you.  You 
always  go  on  reading  when  he's  in  the  room:  it's  uncom- 
fortable for  him,  and  besides,  it  isn't  polite. 

dolly.  Why  shouldn't  I?  You  know  jolly  well  that  he 
doesn't  come  to  see  me.  (Pause)  I  should  have  thought 
you  two  would  like  to  have  all  the  talking  to  yourselves. 
If  that  isn't  being  polite,  what  is? 

Caroline  (resuming  her  work).  Well,  don't  let's  have  a 
row  about  it.     (Pause)     What's  upset  you  to-day,  Dolly? 

dolly.  Nothing.  (Throwing  book  on  floor  and  gazing  into 
fire)  Only  it's  pretty  sickening  to  be  twenty-eight  and 
feel  that  you're  growing  old  and  dull,  with  never  any  real 
fun  or  amusement  like  other  girls  —  girls  who  are  taken  to 
theatres  and  dances,  and  wear  pretty  things,  and  get  mar- 
ried and  have  nice  houses,  and  gardens,  and  servants,  and 
don't  have  to  worry  about  every  halfpenny  they  spend. 
It's  all  so  hopeless,  because  neither  of  us  can  do  anything 
different.  With  the  skimpy,  rotten  education  we  got 
when  we  were  kids,  and  no  training  to  do  anything  in 


MAKESHIFTS  335 


particular,  we  are  expected  to  earn  our  own  living  —  you  as 
genteel  general  servant,  and  I  as  an  assistant  teacher  of 
infants.  And  so  here  we  are,  hopeless  and  helpless,  and 
we  might  as  well  be  on  a  desert  island. 

Caroline.  Ah,  well,  it's  no  good  talking.  (Rising  and  puts 
her  work  on  sideboard  at  back)  I  may  as  well  go  and  put 
Ma's  supper  on  the  tray.  (About  to  exit  right.  Stops  as  she 
hears  loud  knock  at  front  door.  Turning  to  Dolly)  That  must 
be  him  —  Mr.  Smythe  —  I'm  sure  it  is ;  he's  got  such  a  firm 
knock,  hasn't  he?    (Knock)    You  go,  Dolly,  there's  a  dear. 

dolly.  You  go  yourself.  You  know  you  are  dying  to. 
(Violent  rat-tat)  Look  sharp,  or  he'll  have  the  place  down. 
[Knock.  Caroline  exits  hurriedly  right.  Dolly  rises  and 
quickly  arranges  herself  at  glass.  She  sits  down  again, 
listens,  but  appears  absorbed  in  her  book  as  door  opens. 
Caroline  enters  radiant,  followed  by  Smythe. 

Caroline  (right  center).  Dolly,  here's  Mr.  Smythe.  Isn't 
he  naughty;  he  says  he's  been  knocking  for  ten  minutes. 
I'm  sure  you  can't  have,  really! 

dolly  (left).     Well,  he's  had  time  to  collect  his  thoughts 
then.     (Rising)     How  do  you  do? 
[Extends  hand  awkwardly. 

smythe.  Well,  you  girls,  how  are  you  going  along?  Thought 
you'd  be  by  yourselves  to-night  as  per  usual  (standing  back 
to  fire)  and  I  might  as  well  drop  in  and  have  a  bit  of  a 
warm-up.  (Turning  round  and  warming  hands  at  fire) 
Crumbs,  it's  jolly  cold  out  to-night.  (As  he  turns  he  sees 
chocolates  on  mantelshelf)  What  ho!  Chocolates! 
[Takes  some  and  continues  munching  throughout  scene. 

Caroline.     Oh,  you  poor,  dear  man.     Come  and  sit  in  the 
easy  chair.     We  were  just  going  to  have  some  coffee, 
weren't  we,  Dolly?     I'll  run  and  fetch  it.     You'd  like  a 
cup,  wouldn't  you,  it  will  warm  you  up. 
[Kneels  down  and  puts  coals  on  fire. 

smythe.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do.  You  are  very  cosy  here, 
you  girls.  What  I  mean  to  say — you  know  how  to  look 
after  yourselves  all  right.     Trust  you  for  that!     What! 


336  MAKESHIFTS 


dolly.     Well,  there's  no  one  else  to  if  we  don't. 
[Sitting  right  by  table. 

smythe.  Quite  right.  Always  keep  your  optic  on  number 
one,  that's  what  I  say,  eh?  (Lighting  a  cigarette)  Now, 
what  about  that  cup  of  coffee  you  was  making  such  a  song 
about? 

Caroline.  It  won't  be  a  minute.  Dolly,  mind  you  enter- 
tain Mr.  Smythe  whilst  I'm  gone. 

smythe.  Oh,  we'll  look  after  ourselves  all  right.  But 
mind  don't  you  leave  us  alone  too  long.  (Exit  Caroline 
laughing.  Watching  her  out)  Nice  girl,  your  sister.  A  bit 
of  all  right,  she  is.  Something  kind  of  homely  about  her 
that  I  like.  She'd  make  any  chap  that  married  her  jolly 
comfortable.     Now,  you  know,  you're  different,  I  reckon. 

dolly.     Yes,  it  would  be  easier  for  me  to  make  some  people 
I  know  uncomfortable. 
[At  table  right. 

smythe.  Oh,  I  say,  you  know  if  you  are  so  sharp  you'll  cut 
your  face  one  of  these  days.  And  it  don't  always  pay  to 
be  so  clever.  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  it  isn't  every  chap 
likes  it.  Of  course,  I  don't  mind  myself.  I  don't  take 
any  notice  of  what  you  say.  No,  what  I  meant  was, 
you're  not  like  your  sister  because  you're  more  brainy  — 
always  got  a  book  in  your  hand;  but  you  are  just  a  bit 
too  smart,  it  would  put  some  chaps  quite  off,  I  tell  you. 

dolly.     That  would  worry  me! 

smythe.  There  you  go  again!  But  you  can't  afford  to  be 
so  stuck-up  about  it  as  all  that.  What  I  mean  to  say  is, 
you'll  want  some  chap  to  marry  you  some  day,  won't 
you?  —  and  that  isn't  the  way  to  set  about  it. 

dolly.     I'm  not  so  anxious. 

smythe  (chuckling).  Oh,  I  say!  Well,  I  think  it's  time  that 
you  ought  to  be.  This  independence,  earning  your  own 
living,  and  all  that,  is  all  very  fine  when  you're  young;  but 
what  I  say  is  —  what's  it  going  to  lead  to  —  what  about 
when  you're  old?  That's  where  it  comes  in.  It's  then 
you  want  a  man  to  look  after  you  and  buy  you  new  hats 


MAKESHIFTS  337 

and  frocks,  and  a  nice  little  home  with  a  servant  to  do 
the  work,  and  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  yourself,  ain't  it? 

dolly  {a  little  softer).  Yes,  I  know,  but  there's  nobody 
likely  to  want  to  marry  me,  and  besides  — 

smythe.  Oh,  but  it  isn't  so  bad  as  all  that,  you  take  my 
word.  You're  good-looking,  you  know,  and  you've  a 
decent  figure  and  all  that,  and  so  long  as  you  don't  bite  a 
chap's  head  off  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth  you  needn't 
be  left  on  the  shelf.  Not  but  what  you  ought  to  be  keep- 
ing your  eyes  open,  and  watching  out  for  a  probable 
starter.  Of  course,  it's  none  of  my  business,  and  I  don't 
want  to  interfere,  but  I  take  a  sort  of  interest  in  you 
girls.  Especially  you,  you  know.  You're  clever,  and  can 
understand  a  fellow's  ideas,  and  that's  what  a  man  likes. 

dolly  {slowly).  But  if  you  think  so  much  of  marriage  why 
don't  you  —  er  —  practise  what  you  —  er 

smythe  {with  elephantine  coyness).  Oh,  well,  we'll  have  to 
see  how  things  turn  out.  Anyway,  I've  got  a  rise  this 
year,  and  going  along  very  nicely  now,  and  my  wife  what 
may  be  won't  have  to  go  out  to  work,  you  can  bet  on  that. 
You  can  furnish  so  cheap,  too,  nowadays.  What  I  mean 
to  say  is,  a  couple  of  quid  down  and  you  get  the  whole 
outfit,  piano  and  all.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  eh? 
{Winking)  You  wouldn't  think  twice  about  it  if  a  chap 
like  me  come  along  with  a  proposition  like  that,  would  you? 

dolly  {breathlessly).     It  all  depends. 

smythe.  Quite  so!  Quite  so!  But  when  there's  a  chance 
of  a  windfall  of  that  sort  it's  as  well  to  be  prepared,  ain't 
it.  {Crosses  to  Dolly  left.  Mouth  full  of  chocolates,  hands 
in  pockets,  and  portentous  air)  Now,  Dolly,  no  larks, 
strictly  on  the  Q.T.,  and  between  ourselves  —  I  came  in 
this  evening  to  ask  you  —  to  tell  you  —  something  very 
particular 

dolly.     Well,  Mr.  Smythe? 

smythe.     Oh,  well,  there  now.     Never  mind  —  another  time, 
p'r'aps.     Your  sister  will  be  coming  in  in  a  minute. 
[Turning  to  go  up  stage. 


338  MAKESHIFTS 


dolly  (rises  excitedly).    Oh,  no,  she  won't.    What  is  it? 
smythe  (awkwardly) .     Well  —  I  mean  to  say  —  you  see,  it's 

like  this.     I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  making  too  bold, 

but  what  I  want  to  ask  you  is  this 

dolly.     Yes? 

smythe.     Is  there  anything  up  between  you  and  old  Phillips 

—  you  know,  the  bald-headed  chap  what  sometimes  takes 

your  Sunday-School  class?     Not  my  business,  of  course, 

but 

dolly.     Good    gracious  —  the    idea!     I    should  think  not, 

indeed.     (Disappointedly.)     Had  that  got  anything  to  do 

with  what  you  were  going  to  ask  me? 
smythe.     Oh,  well,  I  say,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  offended. 

He's  not  a  bad  chap,  and  I  take  a  sort  of  interest  in  you. 

I  know  a  bit  about  Phillips,  and  he's  not  half  a  bad  catch, 

and  not  nearly  so  old  as  he  looks.     And  his  people  are  all 

right,  too,  and  there's  a  tidy  bit  of  money  in  that  family. 

(Self-consciously)     I    know    his    sister    rather    well,    you 

know.     Well,  what  I  meant  to  say  was  —  I  was  thinking  — 

Anyway,  you  might 

dolly.     Yes? 

[Enter  Caroline  with  coffee,  sugar,  milk,  etc.,  on  tray  right  door. 
smythe  (going  up  stage  to  fire).     Oh,  here's  the  coffee,  and 

it  ought  ter  be  all  right,  too! 

[Dolly  crosses  left  centre. 
Caroline.     Wait  till  you've  tried  it. 

[She  lifts  up  one  lump  of  sugar  for  Smythe' s  approval. 
smythe.     Go  on.     (Caroline  puts  lump  in  cup  and  extends 

second   piece   in    tongs)     Same    again.     (Caroline   repeats 

business  with  third  lump)     Ditto  repeato. 

[Caroline  holds  up  fourth  lump. 
Caroline.     My  word,  you  have  got  a  sweet  tooth! 
smythe.     Sweet  tooth,  sweet  nature! 
Caroline  (giggling).     Oh,  Mr.  Smythe! 

[Handing  him  cup.     Voice  heard  calling:  "Dolly!    Dolly!" 
dolly.     Oh,  bother,  there's  Ma!     Didn't  you  take  her  sup- 
per up,  Carrie?     I  suppose  I  must  go! 


MAKESHIFTS  339 


smythe.     Remember  me  to  the  old  lady,  won't  you? 

dolly.     Oh,  there's  not  much  chance  of  forgetting  you. 
[Exits,  laughing. 

smythe.  Your  Dolly  is  a  fair  knock  out,  she  is.  Mind  you, 
1  like  to  see  a  girl  with  a  bit  of  go  in  her.  But  she's  a 
little  bit  too  ikey,  she  is.  Now,  you're  more  up  to  my 
ideas.  I  mean  to  say  you're  more  the  sort  of  girl  to  make 
a  man  comfortable.  You  see,  a  chap  don't  want  a  girl  to 
jump  down  his  throat  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth. 
You're  much  more  what  I  call  affectionate  and  womanly. 

Caroline  (coyly).    Oh,  what  nonsense! 
[Crosses  to  fire  left  and  sits  down. 

smythe.  You  know  what  it  is.  I  can't  make  it  out  why 
you  didn't  get  married.     Nice  homely  girl  like  you. 

Caroline.  Well,  nobody's  ever  asked  me.  I've  only  known 
such  a  few  men. 

smythe.  Well,  you  do  surprise  me.  Now,  with  me,  you 
know,  it's  just  the  opposite.  It's  taken  me  all  my  time 
to  keep  the  girls  off.  (With  smug  satisfaction  —  and  sweeping 
gesture)  Why,  they  are  all  over  me.  If  I  was  to  tell  you 
the  names  of  some  of  the  girls  what  have  thrown  themselves 
at  me  and  fairly  asked  me  to  marry  them  —  well,  it  would 
stagger  humanity,  it  would.     You  take  my  word. 

Caroline.  Oh,  Mr.  Smythe,  you  don't  say  so.  How  could 
they? 

smythe  (patronizingly).  Oh,  well,  of  course,  you  see,  they 
are  a  different  sort  to  what  you  are.  I  don't  mind  a  bit 
of  cuddlin'  and  squeezin'  and  all  that,  just  to  pass  the  time. 
That's  all  right  in  its  way,  but  as  for  marrying  that  sort  — 
no  thanks,  says  your  humble  servant.  I'm  not  taking 
any.  But  you,  now,  you're  all  right,  or  I  shouldn't  be  in 
quite  so  often.  A  fellow  that  goes  about  among  Society 
at  all  has  got  to  look  after  himself  these  days. 

Caroline.  But  we're  always  very  pleased  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Smythe. 

smythe.  Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  like  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit. 
Must  be  doosid  slow  for  you  girls,  here  by  yourselves. 


340  MAKESHIFTS 


And  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  dropped  in  to-night  on  purpose 
to  see  you  about  something  very  special. 

Caroline  {nervously).     Not  really? 

smythe.  Well,  now,  it's  like  this,  you  see.  I'm  pretty  tired 
of  knockin'  about  alone,  livin'  in  digs  by  myself,  and  no 
one  to  look  after  me  or  to  talk  to,  and  I've  been  turning 
it  over  in  my  mind 

CAROLINE.      Yes? 

smythe.  You  see,  there's  so  many  ways  in  which  a  fellow 
gets  done  in.  Now,  there's  the  washing.  I  reckon  they 
charge  me  a  shilling  or  one-and-sixpence  a  week  more  than 
they  would  if  there  was  someone  to  look  after  things  for 
me  —  and  the  scuttles  of  coals  they  say  I  use!  All  at  six- 
pence a  time,  too!  And  they  charge  a  shocking  lot  for 
mending  which  I  shouldn't  have  to  pay  for  at  all.  Mind 
you,  they  always  say  that  it  doesn't  cost  a  bit  more  for 
two  to  live  than  one.     Now,  what's  your  idea? 

Caroline  {eagerly).  Oh,  I'm  sure  it  can't  cost  more  —  with 
a  little  management.  It's  wicked  for  them  to  charge  you 
for  mending.  I've  often  thought  how  lonely  it  must  be 
for  you. 

smythe.  Lonely!  Why,  that  isn't  the  word.  It's  rotten, 
all  by  myself,  it's  enough  to  give  anyone  the  pip;  and  you 
know  I'm  fond  of  society,  too. 

Caroline.  And  just  fancy  if  you  were  ill,  with  no  one  to 
look  after  you  properly! 

smythe.  Yes,  that's  what  I've  been  thinking  lately,  when 
I'm  a  bit  off  colour.  Now,  what  sort  of  a  husband  do  you 
reckon  I'd  make? 

Caroline.     I'm  sure  I  don't   know  —  you   see  —  well,  I've 

never  thought  about  it  before,  but  do  you  really  mean 

[Gentle  knock  at  door.     Enter  Thompson. 

Thompson  {nervously).  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Caro- 
line. I  didn't  know  you  were  engaged.  I  thought  you 
were  alone.  I've  only  come  to  bring  you  this  evening's 
paper.     I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  it. 

smythe.     Oh,   I  say,   that's    just  what  I  wanted  to   see. 


MAKESHIFTS  341 


{Crossing  over  to  him.  Takes  payer  and  opens  it.  Takes 
out  chocolate  from  bag  in  pocket  and  throws  it  across  table 
towards  Thompson)     Have  a  chocolate,  old  boy? 

Thompson  (stiffly).     No,  thanks.     I  don't  care  for  sweets. 

smytiie.     All  the  more  for  us,  then. 
[Taking  chocolate  back  and  eating  it. 

Caroline  (to  Thompson).     Won't  you  sit  down? 

smythe.     Yes,  go  on,  make  yourself  at  home,  old  chap. 
[Crossing  back  to  fire. 

Thompson.  No,  thanks  very  much,  I  must  be  going,  really. 
I  didn't  mean  to  intrude.  It's  come  on  to  rain  again. 
Good  night. 

smythe.  Well,  so  long,  old  boy.  (Exit  Thompson.  Smythe 
whistles  meaningly)     So  that's  it,  is  it? 

Caroline.  What  is,  Mr.  Smythe?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean. 

smythe.  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You  know  right  enough.  You 
quiet  girls,  you're  a  hot  lot,  you  are.  (Pointing  at  her) 
I  saw  him  making  googoo  eyes  at  you.  When's  the 
weddin'? 

Caroline.  Oh,  don't  be  such  a  tease!  Mr.  Thompson,  in- 
deed, the  idea! 

smythe.  He  does  look  a  bit  of  a  mug.  But  you  never  know 
with  some  of  these  dark  horses.  Still,  a  bird  in  the  'and 
is  worth  two  in  the  bush.  And  after  all,  you  never  knows 
your  luck,  do  you  —  eh,  what? 

Caroline.     How  absurd  you  are! 

smythe.  Oh,  but  I'm  not  jokin'.  I'm  not  really.  Now, 
I'm  not  a  man  to  talk  about  myself.  You  know  that, 
don't  you? 

Caroline.     Yes.     Well? 

smythe.  But  this  evening  —  I  tell  you  straight  —  I've  got 
a  bit  of  news  that  will  make  you  sit  up. 

Caroline.     Well,  tell  me. 

smythe.  Well,  I've  been  talkin'  to  you  about  gettin'  mar- 
ried, haven't  I? 

Caroline  (nervously).     Yes,  yes. 


342  MAKESHIFTS 


smythe.     And  you  think  it's  a  sound  proposition,  now  don't 

you? 
Caroline  (rather  faintly) .     Ye-es,  Mr.  Smythe. 
smythe.     Well,  I  think  so  too,  so  we're  agreed,  ain't  we? 

Caroline.     Yes,  certainly,  but 

smythe.     Well,  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  —  I  mean  ter  say 

—  you  see  it's  like  this  —  I 

[Enter  Dolly,  noisily. 

dolly.  I've  settled  Ma  all  right  for  the  night.  She's  got 
her  supper,  and  she's  had  her  medicine.  So  I  hope  I  can 
have  a  little  peace  now.  (Sitting  down  at  left  of  table)  If 
I  shan't  be  in  the  way. 

smythe.  There  she  goes  again!  Well,  you  are  a  girl! 
Bring  your  chair  up  to  the  fire.  Make  yourself  at  home, 
there's  plenty  of  room.  (She  comes  up  to  fire  and  sits  in 
armchair)  That's  right.  Well,  now,  look  here.  I  might 
as  well  tell  the  pair  of  you  what  I  came  to  see  you  for  this 
evening. 

dolly  and  Caroline  (together).     Oh,  but  really! 

smythe.  Well,  I  say  you  are  a  funny  lot.  Why  not  now? 
It's  what  I  came  for.  (Caroline  and  Dolly  look  appre- 
hensive) Well,  then,  without  any  more  beatin'  about  the 
bush,  it's  like  this.     Yours  truly  —  Albert  J.  Smythe,  Esq. 

—  is  going  —  is  going  to  be  married.     There! 
both.     Oh! 

smythe.  Is  goin'  to  be  married!  Well,  what  d'you  think 
of  that  now  —  eh?  (Pause)  How's  that  for  a  bit  of  news? 
I  bet  you  won't  guess  who  it  is,  but  she's  a  winner,  she  is. 
You  take  my  word.  (Pause)  Well,  ain't  either  of  you 
going  to  wish  me  luck? 

CAROLINE.       But but 

DOLLY.       But  who? 

smythe.  Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  —  but  not  a  word  — 
not  a  word  to  a  soul  now.  We  want  to  keep  it  quiet  for 
a  bit.  The  happy  bride-to-be  is  Miss  Rose  Phillips, 
Sidney  Villa,  Saint  George's  Square  —  the  sister  of  the  gent 
what  you  and  I  was  mentioning  a  little  time  back.    (Ex- 


MAKESHIFTS  343 


pressive   wink   at   Dolly.     Pause)     Ah —  I   thought   that 
would  surprise  you. 

dolly  {slowly).  Well,  I'm  sure  I  congratulate  you,  Mr. 
Smythe. 

Caroline  (slowly).  I  hope  you'll  be  very,  very  happy,  Mr. 
Smythe. 

smythe.  Oh,  I'll  watch  that.  Rose  isn't  half  a  bad  sort. 
Not  fussy  or  clever,  but  understands  a  fellow,  and  what's 
more,  she's  got  a  useful  little  bit  in  the  bank,  too,  that  her 
grandmother  left  her,  and  that's  always  handy.  Oh,  yes, 
what  I  mean  to  say  is,  I  think  I'm  doing  the  right  thing 
for  myself  this  time.  Every  man  ought  to  get  married, 
and  we've  all  got  to  come  to  it  sooner  or  later.  I'll  bring 
my  girl  round  to  see  you  one  Saturday  afternoon,  but  don't 
you  tell  her  too  much  about  me.  She's  a  bit  jealous,  you 
know.  I'm  rather  a  popular  chap  with  the  ladies,  some- 
how. And  I'll  have  to  be  careful,  what  with  a  Sunday- 
School  superintendent  for  a  brother-in-law.  (Looks  at 
watch)  Lord  love  a  duck !  Half-past  ten,  and  I  promised 
to  fetch  Rose  from  her  Choral  Society.  Of  course,  she'll 
have  to  give  up  all  that  sort  of  gadding  about  once  she's 
married  and  settled  down;  but  still,  as  she  says,  it's  a  pity 
to  waste  the  subscription  now.  Well,  so  long,  girls. 
(Shakes  hands  with  the  two  girls)  Thought  I'd  cheer  you 
up  a  bit  to-night.  I'll  pop  in  again  when  —  when  I  haven't 
much  to  do.  Ta-ta.  (Caroline  rises)  You  needn't  see 
me  out.  I  don't  mind  shutting  the  door  myself. 
[Exit  Smythe.  Caroline  stands  by  fire,  gazing  into  it.  Dolly 
picks  up  her  book.  They  remain  silent.  Front  door  bangs. 
Dolly  puts  down  book  and  crosses  to  sideboard,  where  she  gets 
another  smaller  one  and  note-book,  with  which  she  sits  at 
table  centre  facing  the  audience.  Head  resting  on  her  hands, 
elbows  on  table.     Caroline  ivipes  away  a  tear. 

Caroline.     What  are  you  doing,  Dolly? 

dolly.  I'm  preparing  for  Sunday-School  class.  I've  got  to 
take  it  to-morrow,  and  I  want  the  lesson  to  be  specially 
good 


344  MAKESHIFTS 


Caroline.     Why  specially  good? 

dolly.  Oh,  because  —  because  —  well,  for  one  thing,  Mr. 
Phillips  will  be  back  from  his  holidays,  and  —  er 

Caroline.  Oh,  I  see.  (Caroline  crosses  to  Dolly,  puts  hands 
on  her  shoulders  and  kisses  her)     Good  night,  dear. 

dolly  (looking  up,  surprised).     Why  —  you've  been  crying. 

Caroline.     Oh,  I've  got  a  bit  of  a  headache,  I  think. 
[Crosses  left  centre. 

dolly.     But  what's  the  matter? 

Caroline.  Only  something  I  was  thinking  of.  It's  nothing. 
(Brushes  tears  away,  looks  at  clock)  I've  got  an  idea. 
There's  just  time  (she  crosses  the  room  towards  door,  speak- 
ing as  she  goes)  before  the  shops  shut  to  run  round  and  get 
a  haddock  for  Mr.  Thompson's  breakfast  —  he's  very  fond 
of  fish.  I  remember  he  said  he  liked  haddock  better  than 
anything. 

[Exit  hurriedly.  Dolly  remains  watching  Caroline  go  off. 
Turns  to  book  again.  Looks  up.  Suddenly  closes  book, 
pushes  it  from  her,  and  collapses,  her  head  buried  on  her  arms. 

SLOW   CURTAIN 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

OLIPHANT  DOWN 

Oliphant  Down  was  one  of  the  younger  English  drama- 
tists whose  promising  career  was  ended  by  the  war.  Born 
in  1885  at  Bridge  water,  Somersetshire,  he  was  educated  at 
Warminster  School  in  Wiltshire.  He  came  to  London  in 
1902,  and  was  articled  to  a  firm  of  accountants.  After  a 
few  years  he  gave  up  business  and  became  a  journalist  and 
writer. 

"On  the  outbreak  of  the  war,"  writes  Mr.  Harold  Veasey, 
Mr.  Down's  cousin,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  my 
facts,  "he  enlisted  in  the  10th  Hussars,  but  later  obtained 
a  commission  in  the  4th  Battalion,  Royal  Berkshire  Regi- 
ment. In  the  first  battle  of  the  Somme  he  was  wounded  at 
Poizzieres  and  for  very  gallant  work  was  awarded  the  Mili- 
tary Cross;  he  was  also  mentioned  five  times  in  despatches. 
He  returned  to  France  and  was  present  at  much  severe 
fighting  in  1916  and  1917.  On  May  23,  1917,  he  was  killed 
near  Havrincourt  Wood.  His  was  a  most  lovable  nature, 
that  abhorred  war  and  its  attendant  horrors.  He  loved 
everything  that  was  beautiful  in  life.  The  realm  of  fantasy 
and  charm  was  his  delight,  and  the  keynote  of  his  writings. 
...  It  is  remarkable  that  such  a  man  should  have  become 
such  a  brilliant  and  gallant  soldier." 

"The  Maker  of  Dreams"  is  precisely  the  sort  of  fantasy 
that  a  man  of  Oliphant  Down's  nature  must  have  delighted 
in  writing.  This  little  Pierrot  play  met  with  immediate 
success  on  its  initial  performance.  During  the  past  nine 
years  it  has  been  performed  by  professionals  and  amateurs 
wherever  English  is  spoken. 


346  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Mr.  Down's  other  plays,  with  the  exception  of  a  farce 
("The  Quod  Wrangle"),  are  artistically  akin  to  "The 
Maker  of  Dreams." 

PLAYS 

*The  Maker  of  Dreams  *The  Quod  Wrangle  (1914) 

(1911)  Tommy-by-the-way  (1918) 

*The  Dream  Child  (1913)  Bal  Masque  (1921) 

"The  Maker  of  Dreams"  is  published  by  Gowans  and 
Gray,  London  and  Glasgow;  "The  Quod  Wrangle"  by 
Samuel  French,  New  York. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

A  FANTASY  IN  ONE  ACT 


By  OLIPHANT  DOWN 


"The  Maker  of  Dreams"  was  first  produced  at  Glasgow 
in  1911. 

Characters 

Pierrot 

Pierrette 

The  Manufacturer 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Oliphant  Dowir. 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publisher,  Messrs.  Gowans  and  Gray,  London. 

Entered  at  the  Library  of  Congress,  Washington,  U.  S.  A. 

The  performing  rights  of  this  play  are  fully  protected. 

All  applications  for  permission  to  perform  "The  Maker  of  Dreams"  in  the  British 
Empire  (except  Canada)  must  be  addressed  to  Messrs.  Samuel  French,  Limited,  26 
Southampton  Street,  Strand,  London,  W.C.  2,  or  their  authorized  representatives. 
For  permission  to  perform  in  America  and  Canada,  to  Samuel  French,  28  West  38th 
Street,  New  York  City,  U.  S.  A. 

The  fee  for  each  and  every  representation  of  the  play  by  amateurs  in  the  British 
Empire  (except  Canada)  is  thirty  shillings;  in  America  and  Canada,  eight  dollars. 
These  sums  are  payable  in  advance  and  no  performance  may  take  place  unless  a  written 
permission  has  first  been  obtained. 

The  terms  for  performance  by  professionals  can  be  ascertained  on  application. 

The  music  for  "The  Maker  of  Dreams"  is  obtainable  from  Messrs.  French  at  5s. 
net  in  London  and  1  dollar  50  cents  in  Now  York.  Band  parts  can  be  hired  by  ar- 
rangement. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Evening.  A  room  in  an  old  cottage,  with  walls  of  dark  oak, 
lit  only  by  the  moonlight  that  peers  through  the  long,  low  case- 
ment window  at  the  back,  and  the  glow  from  the  fire  that  is 
burning  merrily  on  the  spectator's  left.  A  cobbled  street  can  be 
seen  outside,  and  a  door  to  the  right  of  the  window  opens  di- 
rectly on  it.  Opposite  the  fire  is  a  kitchen  dresser  with  cups  and 
plates  twinkling  in  the  firelight.  A  high-backed  oak  settle,  as 
though  afraid  of  the  cold  moonlight,  has  turned  its  back  on  the 
window  and  warms  its  old  timbers  at  the  fire.  In  the  middle 
of  the  room  stands  a  table  with  a  red  cover;  there  are  chairs  on 
either  side  of  it.  On  the  hob,  a  kettle  is  keeping  itself  warm; 
whilst  overhead,  on  the  hood  of  the  chimney-piece,  a  small  lamp 
is  turned  very  low. 

A  figure  flits  past  the  window  and,  xoith  a  click  of  the  latch, 
Pierrette  enters.  She  hangs  up  her  cloak  by  the  door,  gives  a 
little  shiver  and  runs  to  warm  herself  for  a  moment.  Then, 
having  turned  up  the  lamp,  she  places  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 
Crossing  the  room,  she  takes  a  table-cloth  from  the  dresser  and 
proceeds  to  lay  tea,  setting  out  crockery  for  two.  Once  she  goes 
to  the  window  and,  drawing  aside  the  common  red  casement- 
curtains,  looks  out,  but  returns  to  her  work,  disappointed.  She 
puts  a  spoonful  of  tea  into  the  teapot,  and  another,  and  a  third. 
Something  outside  attracts  her  attention;  she  listens,  her  face 
brightening.     A  voice  is  heard  singing: 

"Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 
She  is  caught  in  a  tangle  of  boughs; 

And  mellow  and  musical  June 

Is  saying  'Good  night'  to  the  cows." 

[The  voice  draws  nearer  and  a  conical  white  hat  goes  past  the 
window.     Pierrot  enters. 


350  THE  MAKER  OF   DREAMS 

pierrot  (throwing  his  hat  to  Pierrette).   Ugh!   How  cold  it  is. 

My  feet  are  like  ice. 
Pierrette.     Here  are  your  slippers.     I  put  them  down  to 

warm. 

[She  kneels  beside  him,  as  he  sits  before  the  fire  and  commences 

to  slip  off  his  shoes. 
pierrot  (singing). 

"Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 
She  will  put  out  her  tongue  and  grimace; 

And  mellow  and  musical  June 

Is  pinning  the  stars  in  their  place." 

Isn't  tea  ready  yet? 
Pierrette.     Nearly.     Only  waiting  for  the  kettle  to  boil. 
pierrot.     How  cold  it  was  in  the  market-place  to-day!     I 

don't  believe  I  sang  at  all  well.     I  can't  sing  in  the  cold. 
Pierrette.     Ah,  you're  like  the  kettle.     He  can't  sing  when 

he's  cold  either.     Hurry  up,  Mr.  Kettle,  if  you  please. 
pierrot.     I  wish  it  were  in  love  with  the  sound  of  its  own 

voice. 
Pierrette.     I  believe  it  is.     Now  it's  singing  like  a  bird. 

We'll  make  the  tea  with  the  nightingale's  tongue.     (She 

pours  the  boiling  water  into  the  teapot)     Come  along. 
pierrot  (looking  into  the  fire) .     I  wonder.     She  had  beauty, 

she  had  form,  but  had  she  soul? 
Pierrette  (cutting  bread  and  butter  at  the  table).    Come  and 

be  cheerful,  instead  of  grumbling  there  to  the  fire. 
pierrot.     I  was  thinking. 
Pierrette.     Come  and  have  tea.     When  you  sit  by  the  fire, 

thoughts  only  fly  up  the  chimney. 
pierrot.     The  whole  world's  a  chimney-piece.     Give  people 

a  thing  as  worthless  as  paper,  and  it  catches  fire  in  them 

and  makes  a  stir;  but  real  thought,  they  let  it  go  up  with 

the  smoke. 
Pierrette.     Cheer  up,  Pierrot.     See  how  thick  I've  spread 

the  butter. 
pierrot.     You're  always  cheerful. 


THE  MAKER  OF    DREAMS  351 


Pierrette.     I  try  to  be  happy. 

PIERROT.      Ugh! 

[He  has  moved  to  the  table.     There  is  a  short  silence,  during 
which  Pierrot  sips  his  tea  moodily. 

Pierrette.     Tea  all  right? 

pierrot.     Middling. 

Pierrette.     Only  middling!     I'll  pour  you  out  some  fresh. 

pierrot.     Oh,  it's  all  right!     How  you  do  worry  a  fellow! 

Pierrette.     Heigh-ho !  Shall  I  chain  up  that  big  black  dog? 

pierrot.     I  say,  did  you  see  that  girl  to-day? 

Pierrette.     Whereabouts? 

pierrot.  Standing  by  the  horse-trough.  With  a  fine  air, 
and  a  string  of  great  beads. 

Pierrette.     I  didn't  see  her. 

pierrot.  I  did,  though.  And  she  saw  me.  Watched  me 
all  the  time  I  was  singing,  and  clapped  her  hands  like 
anything  each  time.  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  for  a  woman 
to  have  a  soul  as  well  as  such  beautiful  colouring. 

Pierrette.     She  was  made  up! 

pierrot.  I'm  sure  she  was  not!  And  how  do  you  know? 
You  didn't  see  her. 

Pierrette.     Perhaps  I  did  see  her. 

pierrot.  Now,  look  here,  Pierrette,  it's  no  good  your  being 
jealous.  When  you  and  I  took  on  this  show  business,  we 
arranged  to  be  just  partners  and  nothing  more.  If  I  see 
any  one  I  want  to  marry,  I  shall  marry  'em.  And  if  you 
see  any  one  who  wants  to  marry  you,  you  can  marry  'em. 

Pierrette.     I'm  not  jealous!     It's  absurd! 

pierrot  (singing  abstractedly). 

"Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 

She  has  scratched  her  white  chin  on  the  gorse; 
And  mellow  and  musical  June 

Is  bringing  the  cuckoo  remorse." 

Pierrette.     Did  you  see  that  girl  after  the  show? 
pierrot.     No.     She  had  slipped  away  in  the  crowd.     Here, 
I've  had  enough  tea.     I  shall  go  out  and  try  to  find  her. 


352  THE   MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Pierrette.     Why  don't  you  stay  in  by  the  fire?     You  could 

help  me  to  darn  the  socks. 
pierrot.     Don't  try  to  chaff  me.     Darning,  indeed!     I  hope 

life  has  got  something  better  in  it  than  darning. 
Pierrette.     I  doubt  it.     It's  pretty  much  the  same  all  the 

world  over.     First  we  wear  holes  in  our  socks,  and  then 

we  mend  them.     The  wise  ones  are  those  who  make  the 

best  of  it,  and  darn  as  well  as  they  can. 
pierrot.     I  say,  that  gives  me  an  idea  for  a  song. 
Pierrette.     Out  with  it,  then. 
pierrot.     Well,  I  haven't  exactly  formed  it  yet.     This  is 

what  flashed  through  my  mind  as  you  spoke: 

(He  runs  up  on  the  table,  using  it  as  a  stage) 

"Life's  a  ball  of  worsted, 

Unwind  it  if  you  can, 
You  who  oft  have  boasted 

(He  pauses  for  a  moment,  then  hurriedly,  in  order  to  gloss  over 
the  false  accenting) 

That  you  are  a  man." 

Of  course  that's  only  a  rough  idea. 
Pierrette.     Are  you  going  to  sing  it  at  the  show? 
pierrot  (jumping  down  from  the  table).     You're  always  so 

lukewarm.     A    man    of    artistic    ideas    is    as    sensitively 

skinned  as  a  baby. 
Pierrette.     Do  stay  in,  Pierrot.     It's  so  cold  outside. 
pierrot.  You  want  me  to  listen  to  you  grumbling,  I  suppose. 
Pierrette.     Just  now  you  said  I  was  always  cheerful. 
pierrot.     There  you  are;  girding  at  me  again. 
Pierrette.     I'm  sorry,   Pierrot.     But  the  market-place  is 

dreadfully  wet,  and  your  shoes  are  awfully  thin. 
pierrot.     I  tell  you  I  will  not  stop  in.     I'm  going  out  to 

find  that  girl.     How  do  I  know  she  isn't  the  very  woman 

of  my  dreams? 
Pierrette.     Why  are  you  always  trying  to  picture  an  ideal 

woman  ? 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  353 

pierrot.     Don't  you  ever  picture  an  ideal  man? 

Pierrette.     No,  I  try  to  be  practical. 

pierrot.  Women  are  so  unimaginative!  They  are  such 
pathetic,  motherly  things,  and  when  they  feel  extra 
motherly  they  say,  "I'm  in  love."  All  that  is  so  sordid 
and  petty.  I  want  a  woman  I  can  set  on  a  pedestal,  and 
just  look  up  at  her  and  love  her. 

Pierrette  {speaking  very  fervently). 

"Pierrot,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 

There's  a  heart  chilling  cold  in  her  rays; 

And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Will  only  last  thirty  short  days." 

pierrot.     Oh,  I  should  never  make  you  understand!    Well, 
I'm  off. 

[As  he  goes  out,  he  sings,  sidelong,  over  his  shoulder  in  a 
mocking  tone,  "Baby,  dont  wait  for  the  moon."  Pierrette 
listens  for  a  moment  to  his  voice  dying  away  in  the  distance. 
Then  she  moves  to  the  fireplace,  and  begins  to  stir  the  fire. 
As  she  kneels  there,  the  words  of  an  old  recitation  form  on  her 
lips.  Half  unconsciously  she  recites  it  again  to  an  audience 
of  laughing  flames  and  glowing,  thoughtful  coals. 

PIERRETTE. 

"  There  lives  a  maid  in  the  big,  wide  world, 

By  the  crowded  town  and  mart, 
And  people  sigh  as  they  pass  her  by; 

They  call  her  Hungry  Heart. 

For  there  trembles  that  on  her  red  rose  lip 

That  never  her  tongue  can  say, 
And  her  eyes  are  sad,  and  she  is  not  glad 

In  the  beautiful  calm  of  day. 

Deep  down  in  the  waters  of  pure,  clear  thought, 

The  mate  of  her  fancy  lies; 
Sleeping,  the  night  is  made  fair  by  his  light 

Sweet  kiss  on  her  dreaming  eyes. 


354  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Though  a  man  was  made  in  the  wells  of  time 

Who  could  set  her  soul  on  fire, 
Her  life  unwinds,  and  she  never  finds 

This  love  of  her  heart's  desire. 

If  you  meet  this  maid  of  a  hopeless  love, 

Play  not  a  meddler's  part. 
Silence  were  best;  let  her  keep  in  her  breast 

The  dream  of  her  hungry  heart." 

(Overcome  by  tears,  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.     A  slow, 
treble  knock  comes  on  the  door;  Pierrette  looks  up  wonder- 
ingly.     Again  the  knock  sounds.) 
Come  in. 

(The  door  swings  slowly  open,  as  though  of  its  own  accord, 
and  without,  on  the  threshold,  is  seen  The  Manufacturer, 
standing  full  in  the  moonlight.  He  is  a  curious,  though 
kindly-looking,  old  man,  and  yet,  with  all  his  years,  he  does 
not  appear  to  be  the  least  infirm.  He  is  the  sort  of  person 
that  children  take  to  instinctively.  He  wears  a  quaintly  cut, 
bottle-green  coat,  with  silver  buttons  and  large  side  pockets, 
which  almost  hides  his  knee  breeches.  His  shoes  have  large 
buckles  and  red  heels.  He  is  exceedingly  unlike  a  prosperous 
manufacturer,  and,  but  for  the  absence  of  a  violin,  would  be 
mistaken  for  a  village  fiddler.  Without  a  ivord  he  advances 
into  the  room,  and,  again  of  its  own  accord,  the  door  closes 
noiselessly  behind  him.  Pierrette  jumping  up  and  moving 
towards  him)  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  ought  to  have  opened 
the  door  when  you  knocked. 

manufacturer.  That's  all  right.  I'm  used  to  opening  doors. 
And  yours  opens  much  more  easily  than  some  I  come  across. 
Would  you  believe  it,  some  people  positively  nail  their 
doors  up,  and  it's  no  good  knocking.  But  there,  you're 
wondering  who  I  am. 

Pierrette.     I  was  wondering  if  you  were  hungry. 

manufacturer.  Ah,  a  woman's  instinct.  But,  thank  you, 
no.  I  am  a  small  eater;  I  might  say  a  very  small  eater. 
A  smile  or  a  squeeze  of  the  hand  keeps  me  going  admirably. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  355 

Pierrette.  At  least  you'll  sit  down  and  make  yourself  at 
home. 

manufacturer  (moving  to  the  settle).  Well,  I  have  a  habit 
of  making  myself  at  home  everywhere.  In  fact,  most 
people  think  you  can't  make  a  home  without  me.  May  I 
put  my  feet  on  the  fender?  It's  an  old  habit  of  mine.  I 
always  do  it. 

Pierrette.     They  say  round  here: 

"Without  feet  on  the  fender 
Love  is  but  slender." 

manufacturer.  Quite  right.  It  is  the  whole  secret  of  the 
domestic  fireside.     Pierrette,  you  have  been  crying. 

Pierrette.     I  believe  I  have. 

manufacturer.  Bless  you,  I  know  all  about  it.  It's 
Pierrot.  And  so  you're  in  love  with  him,  and  he  doesn't 
care  a  little  bit  about  you,  eh?  What  a  strange  old  world 
it  is!     And  you  cry  your  eyes  out  over  him. 

Pierrette.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  often  cry.  But  to-night  he 
seemed  more  grumpy  than  usual,  and  I  tried  so  hard  to 
cheer  him  up. 

manufacturer.     Grumpy,  is  he? 

Pierrette.  He  doesn't  mean  it,  though.  It's  the  cold 
weather,  and  the  show  hasn't  been  playing  so  well  lately. 
Pierrot  wants  to  write  an  article  about  us  for  the  local 
paper  by  way  of  an  advertisement.  He  thinks  the  editor 
may  print  it  if  he  gives  him  free  passes  for  his  family. 

manufacturer.     Do  you  think  Pierrot  is  worth  your  tears? 

Pierrette.     Oh,  yes! 

manufacturer.  You  know,  tears  are  not  to  be  wasted. 
We  only  have  a  certain  amount  of  them  given  to  us  just 
for  keeping  the  heart  moist.  And  when  we've  used  them 
all  up  and  haven't  any  more,  the  heart  dries  up,  too. 

Pierrette.  Pierrot  is  a  splendid  fellow.  You  don't  know 
him  as  well  as  I  do.  It's  true  he's  always  discontented, 
but  it's  only  because  he's  not  in  love  with  any  one.  You 
know,  love  does  make  a  tremendous  difference  in  a  man. 


356  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 


manufacturer.  That's  true  enough.  And  has  it  made  a 
difference  in  you? 

Pierrette.  Oh,  yes!  I  put  Pierrot's  slippers  down  to 
warm,  and  I  make  tea  for  him,  and  all  the  time  I'm  happy 
because  I'm  doing  something  for  him.  If  I  weren't  in 
love,  I  should  find  it  a  drudgery. 

manufacturer.     Are  you  sure  it's  real  love? 

Pierrette.     Why,  yes! 

manufacturer.  Every  time  you  think  of  Pierrot,  do  you 
hear  the  patter  of  little  bare  feet?  And  every  time  he 
speaks,  do  you  feel  little  chubby  hands  on  your  breast 
and  face? 

Pierrette  {fervently).     Yes!     Oh,  yes!    That's  just  it! 

manufacturer.  You've  got  it  right  enough.  But  why  is  it 
that  Pierrot  can  wake  up  all  this  poetry  in  you? 

Pierrette.     Because  —  oh,  because  he's  just  Pierrot. 

manufacturer.  "Because  he's  just  Pierrot."  The  same 
old  reason. 

Pierrette.  Of  course,  he  is  a  bit  dreamy.  But  that's  his 
soul.  I  am  sure  he  could  do  great  things  if  he  tried.  And 
have  you  noticed  his  smile?  Isn't  it  lovely!  Sometimes, 
when  he's  not  looking,  I  want  ever  so  much  to  try  it  on, 
just  to  see  how  I  should  look  in  it.  {Pensively)  But  I 
wish  he'd  smile  at  me  a  little  more  often,  instead  of  at 
others. 

manufacturer.     Ho!     So  he  smiles  at  others,  does  he? 

Pierrette.  Hardly  a  day  goes  by  but  there's  some  fine  lady 
at  the  show.  There  was  one  there  to-day,  a  tall  girl  with 
red  cheeks.  He  is  gone  to  look  for  her  now.  And  it  is 
not  their  faults.  The  poor  things  can't  help  being  in  love 
with  him.     {Proudly)     I  believe  every  one  is  in  love  with 

Pierrot. 
manufacturer.     But  supposing  one  of  these  fine  ladies  were 

to  marry  him? 
Pierrette.     Oh,  they'd  never  do  that.     A  fine  lady  would 
never  marry  a  poor  singer.     If  Pierrot  were  to  get  married, 
I  think  I  should  just   .    .    .   fade  away   ...   Oh,  but  I 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  357 

don't  know  why  I  talk  to  you  like  this.     I  feel  as  if  I  had 

known  you  for  a  long,  long  time. 

[  The  Manufacturer  rises  from  the  settle  and  moves  across  to 

Pierrette,  who  is  now  folding  up  the  white  table-cloth. 
manufacturer  (very  sloidy).     Perhaps  you  have  known  me 

for  a  long,  long  time. 

[His  tone  is  so  kindly  and  impressive  that  Pierrette  forgets 

the  table-cloth  and  looks  up  at  him.     For  a  moment  or  two  he 

smiles  back  at  her  as  she  gazes,  spellbound;  then  he  turns 

away  to  the  fire  again,  with  the  little  chuckle  that  is  never  far 

from  his  lips. 
Pierrette  (taking  a  small  bow  from  his  side-pocket).     Oh, 

look  at  this. 
manufacturer  (in  mock  alarm).     Oh,  oh,  I  didn't  mean  you 

to  see  that.     I'd  forgotten  it  was  sticking  out  of  my  pocket. 

I  used  to  do  a  lot  of  archery  at  one  time.     I  don't  get  much 

chance  now. 

[He  takes  it  and  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket. 
pierrot  (singing  in  the  distance). 

"Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 
She  is  drawing  the  sea  in  her  net; 

And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Is  teaching  the  rose  to  forget." 

manufacturer  (in  a  whisper  as  the  voice  draws  nearer).  Who 
is  that? 

Pierrette.     Pierrot. 

[Again  the  conical  white  hat  flashes  past  the  window  and 
Pierrot  enters. 

pierrot.  I  can't  find  her  anywhere.  (Seeing  the  Manufac- 
turer)    Hullo!     Who  are  you? 

manufacturer.  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  but  Pierrette 
knew  me  in  a  moment. 

pierrot.     An  old  flame  perhaps? 

manufacturer.  True,  I  am  an  old  flame.  I've  lighted  up 
the  world  for  a  considerable  time.  Yet  when  you  say 
"old  ",  there  are  many  people  who  think  I'm  wonderfully 


358  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

well  preserved  for  my  age.     How  long  do  you  think  I've 

been  trotting  about? 
pierrot  {testily,  measuring  a  length  with  his  hands).     Oh, 

about  that  long. 
manufacturer.     I  suppose  being  funny  all  day  does  get  on 

your  nerves. 
Pierrette.     Pierrot,  you  needn't  be  rude. 
manufacturer  (anxious  to  be  alone  with  Pierrot).    Pierrette, 

have  you  got  supper  in? 
Pierrette.     Oh,  I  must  fly!     The  shops  will  all  be  shut. 

Will  you  be  here  when  I  come  back? 
manufacturer  (bustling  her  out).     I  can't  promise,  but  I'll 

try,  I'll  try. 

[Pierrette  goes  out.     There  is  a  silence,  during  which  the 

Manufacturer  regards  Pierrot  with  amusement. 
manufacturer.     Well,  friend  Pierrot,  so  business  is  not 

very  brisk. 
pierrot.     Brisk!     If  laughter  meant  business,  it  would  be 

brisk  enough,  but  there's  no  money.     However,  I've  done 

one  good  piece  of  work  to-day.     I've  arranged  with  the 

editor  to  put  an  article  in  the  paper.     That  will  fetch 

'em.     (Singing) 

"Please  come  one  day  and  see  our  house  that's  down 

among  the  trees, 
But  do  not  come  at  four  o'clock  for  then  we  count  the  bees, 
And  bathe  the  tadpoles,  and  the  frogs,  who  splash  the 

clouds  with  gold, 
And  watch  the  new-cut  cucum&ers  perspiring  with  the 

cold." 

That's  a  song  I'm  writing. 
manufacturer.     Pierrot,  if  you  had  all  the  money  in  the 

world  you  wouldn't  be  happy. 
pierrot.     Wouldn't  I?     Give  me  all  the  money  in  the  world 

and  I'll  risk  it.     To  start  with,  I'd  build  schools  to  educate 

the  people  up  to  high-class  things. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  359 

manufacturer.  You  dream  of  fame  and  wealth  and  empty 
ideals,  and  you  miss  all  the  best  things  there  are.  You 
are  discontented.  Why?  Because  you  don't  know  how 
to  be  happy. 

pierrot  (reciting). 

"Life's  a  running  brooklet, 

Catch  the  fishes  there, 
You  who  wrote  a  booklet 

On  a  woman's  hair." 

(Explaining)  That's  another  song  I'm  writing.  It's  the 
second  verse.  Things  come  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  like  that. 
I  must  run  out  a  third  verse,  just  to  wind  it  up. 

manufacturer.  Why  don't  you  write  a  song  without  any 
end,  one  that  goes  on  forever? 

pierrot.     I  say,  that's  rather  silly,  isn't  it? 

manufacturer.  It  all  depends.  For  a  song  of  that  sort 
the  singer  must  be  always  happy. 

pierrot.     That  wants  a  bit  of  doing  in  my  line. 

manufacturer.     Shall  you  and  I  transact  a  little  business? 

pierrot.  By  all  means.  WTiat  seats  would  you  like?  There 
are  the  front  rows  covered  in  velvet,  one  shilling;  wooden 
benches  behind,  sixpence;  and,  right  at  the  back,  the  two- 
penny part.  But,  of  course,  you'll  have  shilling  ones. 
How  many  shall  we  say? 

manufacturer.     You  don't  know  who  I  am. 

pierrot.  That  makes  no  difference.  All  are  welcome,  and 
we  thank  you  for  your  courteous  attention. 

manufacturer.     Pierrot,  I  am  a  maker  of  dreams. 

pierrot.     A  what? 

manufacturer.  I  make  all  the  dreams  that  float  about  this 
musty  world. 

pierrot.  I  say,  you'd  better  have  a  rest  for  a  bit.  I  expect 
you're  a  trifle  done  up. 

manufacturer.  Pierrot,  Pierrot,  your  superior  mind  can't 
tumble  to  my  calling.  A  child  or  one  of  the  "people" 
would  in  a  moment.     I   am  a  maker  of  dreams,   little 


360  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 


things  that  glide  about  into  people's  hearts  and  make 
them  glad.  Haven't  you  often  wondered  where  the 
swallows  go  to  in  the  autumn?  They  come  to  my  work- 
shop, and  tell  me  who  wants  a  dream,  and  what  happened 
to  the  dreams  they  took  with  them  in  the  spring. 

pierret.     Oh,  I  say,  you  can't  expect  me  to  believe  that. 

manufacturer.  When  flowers  fade,  have  you  never  won- 
dered where  their  colours  go  to,  or  what  becomes  of  all  the 
butterflies  in  the  winter?  There  isn't  much  winter  about 
my  workshop. 

pierrot.     I  had  never  thought  of  it  before. 

manufacturer.  It's  a  kind  of  lost  property  office,  where 
every  beautiful  thing  that  the  world  has  neglected  finds  its 
way.  And  there  I  make  my  celebrated  dream,  the  dream 
that  is  called  "love." 

pierrot.     Ho!  ho!     Now  we're  talking. 

manufacturer.     You  don't  believe  in  it? 

pierrot.  Yes,  in  a  way.  But  it  doesn't  last.  It  doesn't 
last.  If  there  is  form,  there  isn't  soul,  and,  if  there  is 
soul,  there  isn't  form.  Oh,  I've  tried  hard  enough  to  be- 
lieve it,  but,  after  the  first  wash,  the  colours  run. 

manufacturer.  You  only  got  hold  of  a  substitute.  Wait 
until  you  see  the  genuine  article. 

pierrot.     But  how  is  one  to  tell  it? 

manufacturer.  There  are  heaps  of  signs.  As  soon  as  you 
get  the  real  thing,  your  shoulder-blades  begin  to  tingle. 
That's  love's  wings  sprouting.  And,  next,  you  want  to 
soar  up  among  the  stars  and  sit  on  the  roof  of  heaven  and 
sing  to  the  moon.  Of  course,  that's  because  I  put  such 
a  lot  of  the  moon  into  my  dreams.  I  break  bits  off  until 
it's  nearly  all  gone,  and  then  I  let  it  grow  big  again.  It 
grows  very  quickly,  as  I  dare  say  you've  noticed.  After  a 
fortnight  it  is  ready  for  use  once  more. 

pierrot.  This  is  most  awfully  fascinating.  And  do  the 
swallows  bring  all  the  dreams? 

manufacturer.  Not  always;  I  have  other  messengers. 
Every  night  when  the  big  clock  strikes  twelve,  a  day  slips 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  361 

down  from  the  calendar,  and  runs  away  to  my  workshop 
in  the  Land  of  Long  Ago.  I  give  him  a  touch  of  scarlet 
and  a  gleam  of  gold,  and  say,  "Go  back,  little  Yesterday, 
and  be  a  memory  in  the  world."  But  my  best  dreams  I 
keep  for  to-day.  I  buy  babies,  and  fit  them  up  with  a 
dream,  and  then  send  them  complete  and  carriage  paid 
...    in  the  usual  manner. 

pierrot.  I've  been  dreaming  all  my  life,  but  they've  always 
been  dreams  I  made  myself.  I  suppose  I  don't  mix  'em 
properly. 

manufacturer.  You  leave  out  the  very  essence  of  them. 
You  must  put  in  a  little  sorrow,  just  to  take  away  the 
over-sweetness.  I  found  that  out  very  soon,  so  I  took  a 
little  of  the  fresh  dew  that  made  pearls  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, and  I  sprinkled  my  dreams  with  the  gift  of  tears. 

pierrot  (ecstatically).  The  gift  of  tears!  How  beautiful! 
You  know,  I  should  rather  like  to  try  a  real  one.  Not 
one  of  my  own  making. 

manufacturer.  Well,  there  are  plenty  about,  if  you  only 
look  for  them. 

pierrot.  That  is  all  very  well,  but  who's  going  to  look  about 
for  stray  dreams? 

manufacturer.  I  once  made  a  dream  that  would  just  suit 
you.  I  slipped  it  inside  a  baby.  That  was  twenty  years 
ago,  and  the  baby  is  now  a  full-grown  woman,  with  great 
blue  eyes  and  fair  hair. 

pierrot.     It's  a  lot  of  use  merely  telling  me  about  her. 

manufacturer.  I'll  do  more.  When  I  shipped  her  to  the 
world,  I  kept  the  bill  of  lading.  Here  it  is.  You  shall 
have  it. 

pierrot.     Thanks,  but  what's  the  good  of  it? 

manufacturer.  Why,  the  holder  of  that  is  able  to  claim  the 
goods;  you  will  notice  it  contains  a  complete  description, 
too.     I  promise  you,  you're  in  luck. 

pierrot.     Has  she  red  cheeks  and  a  string  of  great  beads? 

MANUFACTURER.      No. 

pierrot.     Ah,  then  it  is  not  she.     Where  shall  I  find  her? 


362  THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

manufacturer.  That's  for  you  to  discover.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  search. 

pierrot.     I'll  start  at  once. 
[He  moves  as  if  to  go. 

manufacturer.     I  shouldn't  start  out  to-night. 

pierrot.  But  I  want  to  find  her  soon.  Somebody  else  may 
find  her  before  me. 

manufacturer.  Pierrot,  there  was  once  a  man  who  wanted 
to  gather  mushrooms. 

pierrot  (annoyed  at  the  commonplace).     Mushrooms! 

manufacturer.  Fearing  people  would  be  up  before  him, 
he  started  out  overnight.  Morning  came,  and  he  found 
none,  so  he  returned  disconsolate  to  his  house.  As  he 
came  through  the  garden,  he  found  a  great  mushroom  had 
grown  up  in  the  night  by  his  very  door-step.  Take  the 
advice  of  one  who  knows,  and  wait  a  bit. 

pierrot.  If  that's  your  advice  .  .  .  But  tell  me  this,  do 
you  think  I  shall  find  her? 

manufacturer.  I  can't  say  for  certain.  Would  you  con- 
sider yourself  a  fool? 

pierrot.  Ah  ...  of  course  .  .  .  when  you  ask  me  a 
direct  thing  like  that,  you  make  it  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  rather 
awkward  for  me.  But,  if  I  may  say  so,  as  man  to  ma  .  .  . 
I  mean  as  man  to   .    .    .    [He  hesitates. 

manufacturer  (waiving  the  point).     Yes,  yes. 

pierrot.     Well,  I  flatter  myself  that    .    .    . 

manufacturer.  Exactly.  And  that's  your  principal  danger. 
Whilst  you  are  striding  along  gazing  at  the  stars,  you  may 
be  treading  on  a  little  glow-worm.  Shall  I  give  you  a 
third  verse  for  your  song? 

"Life's  a  woman  calling, 

Do  not  stop  your  ears, 
Lest,  when  night  is  falling, 

Darkness  brings  you  tears." 

[The  Manufacturer's  kindly  and  impressive  tone  holds  Pierrot 
as  it  had  held  Pierrette  some  moments  before.     Whilst  the  two 


THE   MAKER  OF  DREAMS  363 

are  looking  at  each  other,  a  little  red  cloak  dances  past  the 

window,  and  Pierrette  enters  with  her  marketing. 
Pierrette.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you're  still  here. 
manufacturer.     But  I  must  be  going  now.     I  am  a  great 

traveller. 
Pierrette  (standing  against  the  door,  so  that  he  cannot  pass). 

Oh,  you  mustn't  go  yet. 
manufacturer.     Don't  make  me  fly  out  of  the  window.     I 

only  do  that  under  very  unpleasant  circumstances. 
pierrot  (gaily,  with  mock  eloquence).     Pierrette,  regard  our 

visitor.     You  little  knew  whom  you  were  entertaining. 

You  see  before  you  the  maker  of  the  dreams  that  slip 

about  the  world  like  little  fish  among  the  rushes  of   a 

stream.     He  has  given  me  the  bill  of  lading  of  his  great 

masterpiece,   and   it  only  remains   for  me  to   find   her. 

(Dropping  to  the  commonplace)     I  wish  I  knew  where  to 

look. 
manufacturer.     Before  I  go,  I  will  give  you  this  little 

rhyme : 

"Let  every  woman  keep  a  school, 
For  every  man  is  born  a  fool." 

[He  bows,  and  goes  out  quickly  and  silently. 
Pierrette  (running  to  the  door,  and  looking  out).     Why,  how 

quickly  he  has  gone!     He's  out  of  sight. 
pierrot.     At  last  I  am  about  to  attain  my  great  ideal. 

There  will  be  a  grand  wedding,  and  I  shall  wear  my  white 

coat  with  the  silver  braid,  and  carry  a  tall  gold-topped 

stick.     (Singing) 

"If  we  play  any  longer,  I  fear  you  will  get 
Such  a  cold  in  the  head,  for  the  grass  is  so  wet. 
But  during  the  night,  Margareta  divine, 
I  will  hang  the  wet  grass  up  to  dry  on  the  line." 

Pierrette,  I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  enter  into  a  man's 
inheritance,  a  woman's  love. 


364  THE   MAKER  OF  DREAMS 

Pierrette.     I  wish  you  every  happiness. 
Pierrot  (singing  teasingly). 

"We  shall  meet  in  our  dreams,  that's  a  thing  understood; 

You  dream  of  the  river,  I'll  dream  of  the  wood. 

I  am  visiting  you,  if  the  river  it  be; 

If  we  meet  in  the  wood,  you  are  visiting  me." 

Pierrette.  We  must  make  lots  of  money,  so  that  you  can 
give  her  all  she  wants.  I'll  dance  and  dance  until  I  fall, 
and  the  people  will  exclaim,  "Why,  she  has  danced  herself 
to  death." 

pierrot.     You're  right.     We  must  pull  the  show  together. 
I'll  do  that  article  for  the  paper  at  once. 
(He  takes  paper,  ink,  etc.,  from  the  dresser,  and,  seating  him- 
self at  the  table,  commences  to  write.) 

"There  has  lately  come  to  this  town  a  company  of  strolling 
players,  who  give  a  show  that  is  at  once  musical  and  droll. 
The  audience  is  enthralled  by  Pierrot's  magnificent  sing- 
ing and  dancing,  and  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  very  much  enter- 
tained by  Pierrette's  homely  dancing.  Pierrette  is  a 
charming  comedienne  of  twenty,  with  ..."  what  colour 
hair? 

Pierrette.     Fair,  quite  fair. 

pierrot.  Funny  how  one  can  see  a  person  every  day  and 
not  know  the  colour  of  their  hair.  "Fair  hair  and  .  .  ." 
eyes? 

Pierrette.     Blue,  Pierrot. 

pierrot.  "Fair  hair  and  blue  eyes."  Fair!  Blue!  Oh, 
of  course  it's  nonsense,  though. 

Pierrette.     What's  nonsense? 

pierrot.  Something  I  was  thinking.  Most  girls  have  fair 
hair  and  blue  eyes. 

Pierrette.     Yes,  Pierrot,  we  can't  all  be  ideals. 

pierrot.     How  musical  your  voice  sounds!     I  can't  make  it 
out.     Oh,  but,  of  course,  it  is  all  nonsense! 
[He  takes  the  bill  of  lading  from  his  pocket  and  reads  it. 


THE  MAKER  OF  DREAMS  365 

Pierrette.  What's  nonsense?  .  .  .  Pierrot,  won't  you  tell 
me? 

pierrot.     Pierrette,  stand  in  the  light. 

Pierrette.     Is  anything  the  matter? 

pierrot.  I  almost  believe  that  nothing  matters.  (Reading 
and  glancing  at  her)  "Eyes  that  say  'I  love  you';  arms 
that  say  'I  want  you';  lips  that  say  'Why  don't  you?'  " 
Pierrette,  is  it  possible!  I've  never  noticed  before  how 
beautiful  you  are.  You  don't  seem  a  bit  the  same.  I  be- 
lieve you  have  lost  your  real  face,  and  have  carved  another 
out  of  a  rose. 

Pierrette.     Oh,  Pierrot,  what  is  it? 

pierrot.  Love!  I've  found  it  at  last.  Don't  you  under- 
stand it  all? 

"I  am  a  fool 

Who  has  learned  wisdom  in  your  school." 

To  think  that  I've  seen  you  every  day,  and  never  dreamed 

.    .    .    dreamed!     Yes,  ah  yes,   it's  one  of  his  beautiful 

dreams.     That  is  why  my  heart  seems  full  of  the  early 

morning. 
Pierrette.     Ah,  Pierrot! 
pierrot.     Oh,  how  my  shoulders  tingle !     I  want  to  soar  up, 

up.     Don't  you  want  to  fly  up  to  the  roof  of  heaven  and 

sing  among  the  stars? 
Pierrette.     I  have  been  sitting  on  the  moon  ever  so  long, 

waiting  for  my  lover.     Pierrot,  let  me  try  on  your  smile. 

Give  it  to  me  in  a  kiss. 

(With  their  hands  outstretched  behind  them,  they  lean  towards 

each  other,  till  their  lips  meet  in  a  long  kiss.     Throwing  back 

her  head  with  a  deep  sigh  of  happiness)     Oh,  I  am  so  happy. 

This  might  be  the  end  of  all  things. 
pierrot.     Pierrette,  let  us  sit  by  the  fire  and  put  our  feet  on 

the  fender,  and  live  happily  ever  after. 

(They  have  moved  slowly  to  the  settle.     As  they  sit  there, 

Pierrot  sings  softly: 


366  THE   MAKER  OF  DREAMS 


"Baby,  don't  wait  for  the  moon, 
The  stairs  of  the  sky  are  so  steep; 

And  mellow  and  musical  June 
Is  waiting  to  kiss  you  to  sleep." 

[The  lamp  on  the  hood  of  the  chimney-piece  has  burned  down, 
leaving  only  the  red  glow  from  the  fire  upon  their  faces,  as  the 
curtain  whispers  down  to  hide  them. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEARTS  DESIRE 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

William  Butler  Yeats  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1865. 
Educated  in  his  native  city  and  later  in  London,  at  a  com- 
paratively early  age  he  became  identified  with  the  Irish 
Literary  Revival.  In  this  connection,  his  chief  activity  was 
the  foundation  —  in  company  with  Lady  Gregory,  George 
Moore,  and  Edward  Martyn  —  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theater. 
This  venture  later  developed  into  the  Abbey  Theater,  to- 
ward the  success  of  which  Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory  have 
largely  contributed. 

Most  of  Yeats'  own  plays  were  written  for  production  at 
the  Abbey,  but  his  work  has  been  by  no  means  confined  to 
writing  plays;  for  besides  his  poems,  which  constitute  his 
most  important  work,  he  has  managed  the  theater,  en- 
couraged and  taught  other  dramatists  to  write  for  it,  and 
finally  "discovered"  John  M.  Synge.  "The  future,"  de- 
clares Horatio  Sheaf e  Krans  in  his  book,  "William  Butler 
Yeats  and  The  Irish  Literary  Revival",  "will  look  back  to 
Mr.  Yeats  as  to  a  landmark  in  the  literary  history  of  Ireland, 
both  because  of  his  artistic  achievement  and  because  he  has 
been  a  leader  in  a  remarkable  movement.  Through  his 
poetry  the  Celtic  spirit  moves  like  a  fresh  wind." 

Yeats  brought  to  the  theater  great  poetic  and  consider- 
able dramatic  gifts;  he  aroused  widespread  interest  in  the 
legends  of  the  Irish  past;  as  propagandist,  too,  as  manager, 
lecturer,  teacher,  he  has  done  more  than  any  other  —  ex- 
cepting possibly  Lady  Gregory  —  to  create  a  living  art  for 
Ireland. 


368  THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

PLAYS 

♦The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire  *The  Shadowy  Waters  (1904) 

(1894)  *On  Baile's  Strand  (1904) 

The  Countess  Cathleen  *Deirdre  (1906) 

(1899)  The  Unicorn  from  the  Stars 
Diarmuid  and  Grania  (1901)  (1907) 

(In  collaboration   with  (In  collaboration   with 

George  Moore)  Lady  Gregory) 

♦Kathleen  ni  Houlihan  (1902)  *The  Golden  Helmet  (1908) 

*A  Pot  of  Broth  (1902)  *The  Green  Helmet  (1911) 

*The  Hour  Glass  (1903)  The  Hawk  (1916) 

*The  King's  Threshold  (1903)  The  Player  Queen  (1916) 
Where  There  is  Nothing 
(1903) 

"The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire"  is  published  separately  by 
Thomas  B.  Mosher,  Portland,  Maine,  by  Samuel  French, 
New  York,  and  by  Walter  H.  Baker,  Boston,  as  well  as  in 
various  volumes  of  plays  published  by  Macmillan  Company, 
New  York;  "The  Countess  Cathleen"  in  Vol.  2  of  "The 
Poetical  Works  of  William  B.  Yeats",  Macmillan;  "Kathleen 
ni  Houlihan"  in  volume  of  that  title,  Macmillan,  and  in 
Montrose  J.  Moses'  "Representative  British  Dramas", 
Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston;  "A  Pot  of  Broth"  and 
"The  Hour  Glass"  in  the  same  volume,  in  later  Yeats  volume 
"Responsibilities",  Macmillan,  and  in  T.  H.  Dickinson's 
"Chief  Contemporary  Dramatists",  Houghton,  Mifflin 
Company,  Boston;  "The  King's  Threshold",  "The 
Shadowy  Waters  ",  "  On  Baile's  Strand  ",  and  "Deirdre"  in 
"The  Poetical  Works"  above  cited;  "The  Unicorn  from  the 
Stars",  separately,  by  Macmillan;  "The  Golden  Helmet" 
in  "Plays  for  an  Irish  Theatre",  A.  H.  Bullen,  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  England;  "The  Green  Helmet"  in  volume  of  that 
title,  Macmillan. 

References:  Horatio  Sheafe  Krans,  "William  Butler  Yeats 
and  the  Irish  Literary  Revival ",  Doubleday,  Page  and  Com- 


THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  369 


pany,  New  York;  Forrest  Reid,  "  W.  B.  Yeats  ",  Dodd,  Mead 
and  Company,  New  York;  J.  M.  Hone,  "William  Butler 
Yeats",  Maunsel  and  Company,  Dublin;  B.  Russell  Herts, 
"Depreciations",  Boni  and  Liveright,  New  York;  James 
Huneker,  "The  Pathos  of  Distance",  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  New  York;  Alan  Wade,  "Bibliography  of  Yeats"  (in 
"Collected  Works",  A.  H.  Bullen,  Stratford-on-Avon). 

Magazines:  Poet  Lore,  vol.  xv,  p.  83,  Boston;  Critic,  vol. 
xliv,  p.  26;  Collier's  Weekly,  vol.  xlviii,  p.  15,  New  York; 
Living  Age,  vol.  cclxix,  Boston;  Fortnightly,  vol.  xci,  p.  342, 
London;  Harper  s  Weekly,  vol.  xlviii,  p.  291,  New  York; 
Westminster  Review,  vol.  clxxvi,  p.  1,  London;  North  American 
Review,  vol.  clxxv,  p.  473,  New  York;  Quarterly  Review,  vol. 
ccxv,  p.  219,  London. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 


By  WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 


"The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire"  was  first  produced  at 
Dublin  in  1894. 

Characters 

Maurteen  Bruin,  a  peasant 
Shawn  Bruin,  his  son 
Father  Hart,  a  priest 
Bridget  Bruin,  Maurteen" s  wife 
Maire  Bruin,  their  daughter-in-law 
A  Child 


Copyright,  1907,  by  The  Macmilaan  Company. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Scene.  The  kitchen  of  Maurteen  Bruin's  house.  An  open 
grate  with  a  turf  fire  is  at  the  left  side  of  the  room,  with  a  table 
in  front  of  it.  There  is  a  door  leading  to  the  open  air  at  the 
back,  and  another  door  a  little  to  its  left,  leading  to  an  inner 
room.  There  is  a  window,  a  settle  and  a  large  dresser  on  the 
right  side  of  the  room,  and  a  great  bowl  of  primroses  on  the  sill 
of  the  window.  Maurteen  Bruin,  Father  Hart,  and  Bridget 
Bruin  are  sitting  at  the  table.  Shawn  Bruin  is  setting  the  table 
for  sttpper.  Maire  Bruin  sits  on  the  settle  reading  a  yellow 
manuscript. 

BRIDGET. 

Because  I  bade  her  go  and  feed  the  calves, 
She  took  that  old  book  down  out  of  the  thatch 
And  has  been  doubled  over  it  all  day. 
We  would  be  deafened  by  her  groans  and  moans 
Had  she  to  work  as  some  do,  Father  Hart, 
Get  up  at  dawn  like  me,  and  mend  and  scour; 
Or  ride  abroad  in  the  boisterous  night  like  you, 
The  pyx  and  blessed  bread  under  your  arm. 

SHAWN. 

You  are  too  cross. 

BRIDGET. 

The  young  side  with  the  young. 

MAURTEEN. 

She  quarrels  with  my  wife  a  bit  at  times, 
And  is  too  deep  just  now  in  the  old  book! 
But  do  not  blame  her  greatly;  she  will  grow 
As  quiet  as  a  puff-ball  in  a  tree 
When  but  the  moons  of  marriage  dawn  and  die 
For  half  a  score  of  times. 


374  THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE 

FATHER. 

Their  hearts  are  wild 
As  be  the  hearts  of  birds,  till  children  come. 

BRIDGET. 

She  would  not  mind  the  griddle,  milk  the  cow, 
Or  even  lay  the  knifes  and  spread  the  cloth. 

FATHER. 

I  never  saw  her  read  a  book  before; 
What  may  it  be? 

MAURTEEN. 

I  do  not  rightly  know; 
It  has  been  in  the  thatch  for  fifty  years. 
My  father  told  me  my  grandfather  wrote  it, 
Killed  a  red  heifer  and  bound  it  with  the  hide. 
But  draw  your  chair  this  way  —  supper  is  spread; 
And  little  good  he  got  out  of  the  book, 
Because  it  filled  his  house  with  roaming  bards, 
And  roaming  ballad-makers  and  the  like, 
And  wasted  all  his  goods. — Here  is  the  wine: 
The  griddle  bread's  beside  you,  Father  Hart. 
Colleen,  what  have  you  got  there  in  the  book 
That  you  must  leave  the  bread  to  cool?     Had  I, 
Or  had  my  father,  read  or  written  books 
There  were  no  stocking  full  of  silver  and  gold 
To  come,  when  I  am  dead,  to  Shawn  and  you. 

FATHER. 

You  should  not  fill  your  head  with  foolish  dreams. 
What  are  you  reading? 

MAIRE. 

How  a  Princess  Adene, 
A  daughter  of  a  King  of  Ireland,  heard 
A  voice  singing  on  a  May  Eve  like  this, 
And  followed,  half  awake  and  half  asleep, 
Until  she  came  into  the  land  of  faery, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  godly  and  grave, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  crafty  and  wise, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  bitter  of  tongue; 


THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE  375 

And  she  is  still  there,  busied  with  a  dance, 

Deep  in  the  dewy  shadow  of  a  wood, 

Or  where  stars  walk  upon  a  mountain-top. 

MAURTEEN. 

Persuade  the  colleen  to  put  by  the  book: 
My  grandfather  would  mutter  just  such  things, 
And  he  was  no  judge  of  a  dog  or  horse, 
And  any  idle  boy  could  blarney  him : 
Just  speak  your  mind. 

FATHER. 

Put  it  away,  my  colleen. 
God  spreads  the  heavens  above  us  like  great  wings, 
And  gives  a  little  round  of  deeds  and  days, 
And  then  come  the  wrecked  angels  and  set  snares, 
And  bait  them  with  light  hopes  and  heavy  dreams, 
Until  the  heart  is  puffed  with  pride  and  goes, 
Half  shuddering  and  half  joyous,  from  God's  peace: 
And  it  was  some  wrecked  angel,  blind  from  tears, 
Who  flattered  Adene's  heart  with  merry  words. 
My  colleen,  I  have  seen  some  other  girls 
Restless  and  ill  at  ease,  but  years  went  by 
And  they  grew  like  their  neighbors  and  were  glad 
In  minding  children,  working  at  the  churn, 
And  gossiping  of  weddings  and  of  wakes; 
For  life  moves  out  of  a  red  flare  of  dreams 
Into  a  common  light  of  common  hours, 
Until  old  age  brings  the  red  flare  again. 

SHAWN. 

Yet  do  not  blame  her  greatly,  Father  Hart, 
For  she  is  dull  while  I  am  in  the  fields, 
And  mother's  tongue  were  harder  still  to  bear, 
But  for  her  fancies:  this  is  May  Eve  too, 
When  the  good  people  post  about  the  world, 
And  surely  one  may  think  of  them  to-night. 
Maire,  have  you  the  primroses  to  fling 
Before  the  door  to  make  a  golden  path 
For  them  to  bring  good  luck  into  the  house? 


376  THE  LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE 

Remember,  they  may  steal  new-married  brides 

After  the  fall  of  twilight  on  May  Eve. 

[Maire  goes  over  to  the  window  and  takes  flowers  from  the 

bowl  and  strews  them  outside  the  door. 

FATHER. 

You  do  well,  daughter,  because  God  permits 
Great  power  to  the  good  people  on  May  Eve. 

SHAWN. 

They  can  work  all  their  will  with  primroses; 
Change  them  to  golden  money,  or  little  flames 
To  burn  up  those  who  do  them  any  wrong. 
maire  (in  a  dreamy  voice). 

I  had  no  sooner  flung  them  by  the  door 
Than  the  wind  cried  and  hurried  them  away; 
And  then  a  child  came  running  in  the  wind 
And  caught  them  in  her  hands  and  fondled  them: 
Her  dress  was  green:  her  hair  was  of  red  gold; 
Her  face  was  pale  as  water  before  dawn. 

FATHER. 

Whose  child  can  this  be? 

MAURTEEN. 

No  one's  child  at  all. 
She  often  dreams  that  some  one  has  gone  by 
When  there  was  nothing  but  a  puff  of  wind. 

MAIRE. 

They  will  not  bring  good  luck  into  the  house, 
For  they  will  have  blown  the  primroses  away; 
Yet  I  am  glad  that  I  was  courteous  to  them, 
For  are  not  they,  likewise,  children  of  God? 

FATHER. 

Colleen,  they  are  the  children  of  the  field, 
And  they  have  power  until  the  end  of  Time, 
When  God  shall  fight  with  them  a  great  pitched  battle 
And  hack  them  into  pieces. 
maire.  He  will  smile, 

Father,  perhaps,  and  open  his  great  door, 
And  call  the  pretty  and  kind  into  his  house. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  377 


FATHER. 

Did  but  the  lawless  angels  see  that  door, 

They  would  fall,  slain  by  everlasting  peace; 

And  when  such  angels  knock  upon  our  doors 

Who  goes  with  them  must  drive  through  the  same  storm. 

[A  knock  at  the  door.     Maire  opens  it  and  then  goes  to  the 

dresser  and  fills  a  porringer  with  milk  and  hands  it  through 

the  door  and  takes  it  back  empty  and  closes  the  door. 

MAIRE. 

A  little  queer  old  woman  cloaked  in  green, 
Who  came  to  beg  a  porringer  of  milk. 

BRIDGET. 

The  good  people  go  asking  milk  and  fire 
Upon  May  Eve  —  Woe  on  the  house  that  gives, 
For  they  have  power  upon  it  for  a  year. 
I  knew  you  would  bring  evil  on  the  house. 

MAURTEEN. 

Who  was  she? 

MAIRE. 

Both  the  tongue  and  face  were  strange. 

MAURTEEN. 

Some  strangers  came  last  week  to  Clover  Hill; 
She  must  be  one  of  them. 
Bridget.  I  am  afraid. 

MAURTEEN. 

The  priest  will  keep  all  harm  out  of  the  house. 

FATHER. 

The  cross  will  keep  all  harm  out  of  the  house 
While  it  hangs  there. 

MAURTEEN. 

Come,  sit  beside  me,  colleen, 
And  put  away  your  dreams  of  discontent, 
For  I  would  have  you  light  up  my  last  days 
Like  a  bright  torch  of  pine,  and  when  I  die 
I  will  make  you  the  wealthiest  hereabout : 
For  hid  away  where  nobody  can  find 
I  have  a  stocking  full  of  silver  and  gold. 


378  THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE 

BRIDGET. 

You  are  the  fool  of  every  pretty  face, 

And  I  must  pinch  and  pare  that  my  son's  wife 

May  have  all  kinds  of  ribbons  for  her  head. 

MAURTEEN. 

Do  not  be  cross;  she  is  a  right  good  girl! 

The  butter  is  by  your  elbow,  Father  Hart. 

My  colleen,  have  not  Fate  and  Time  and  Change 

Done  well  for  me  and  for  old  Bridget  there? 

We  have  a  hundred  acres  of  good  land, 

And  sit  beside  each  other  at  the  fire, 

The  wise  priest  of  our  parish  to  our  right, 

And  you  and  our  dear  son  to  left  of  us. 

To  sit  beside  the  board  and  drink  good  wine 

And  watch  the  turf  smoke  coiling  from  the  fire 

And  feel  content  and  wisdom  in  your  heart, 

This  is  the  best  of  life;  when  we  are  young 

We  long  to  tread  a  way  none  trod  before, 

But  find  the  excellent  old  way  through  love 

And  through  the  care  of  children  to  the  hour 

For  bidding  Fate  and  Time  and  Change  good-bye. 

[A  knock  at  the  door.     Maire  opens  it  and  then  takes  a  sod 

t\  turf  out  of  the  hearth  in  the  tongs  and  passes  it  through  the 

door  and  closes  the  door  and  remains  standing  by  it. 

MAIRE. 

A  little  queer  old  man  in  a  green  coat, 
Who  asked  a  burning  sod  to  light  his  pipe. 

BRIDGET. 

You  have  now  given  milk  and  fire,  and  brought, 
For  all  you  know,  evil  upon  the  house. 
Before  you  married  you  were  idle  and  fine, 
And  went  about  with  ribbons  on  your  head; 
And  now  you  are  a  good-for-nothing  wife. 

SHAWN. 

Be  quiet,  mother! 

MAURTEEN. 

You  are  much  too  cross! 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S   DESIRE  379 

MAIRE. 

What  do  I  care  if  I  have  given  this  house, 
Where  I  must  hear  all  day  a  bitter  tongue, 
Into  the  power  of  faeries! 

BRIDGET. 

You  know  well 
How  calling  the  good  people  by  that  name 
Or  talking  of  them  over  much  at  all 
May  bring  all  kinds  of  evil  on  the  house. 

MAIRE. 

Come,  faeries,  take  me  out  of  this  dull  house! 
Let  me  have  all  the  freedom  I  have  lost; 
Work  when  I  will  and  die  when  I  will ! 
Faeries,  come  take  me  out  of  this  dull  world, 
For  I  would  ride  with  you  upon  the  wind, 
Run  on  the  top  of  the  disheveled  tide, 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains  like  a  flame! 

FATHER. 

You  cannot  know  the  meaning  of  your  words. 

MAIRE. 

Father,  I  am  right  weary  of  four  tongues: 

A  tongue  that  is  too  crafty  and  too  wise, 

A  tongue  that  is  too  godly  and  too  grave, 

A  tongue  that  is  more  bitter  than  the  tide, 

And  a  kind  tongue  too  full  of  drowsy  love, 

Of  drowsy  love  and  my  captivity. 

[Shawn  comes  over  to  her  and  leads  her  to  the  settle. 

SHAWN. 

Do  not  blame  me:  I  often  lie  awake 

Thinking  that  all  things  trouble  your  bright  head  — 

How  beautiful  it  is  —  such  broad  pale  brows 

Under  a  cloudy  blossoming  of  hair ! 

Sit  down  beside  me  here  —  these  are  too  old, 

And  have  forgotten  they  were  ever  young. 

MAIRE. 

O  you  are  the  great  door-post  of  this  house, 
And  I,  the  red  nasturtium,  climbing  up. 


380  THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

[She  takes  Shawn  s  hand,  but  looks  shyly  at  the  priest  and 
lets  it  go. 

FATHER. 

Good  daughter,  take  his  hand  —  by  love  alone 
God  binds  us  to  himself  and  to  the  hearth 
And  shuts  us  from  the  waste  beyond  his  peace, 
From  maddening  freedom  and  bewildering  light. 

SHAWN. 

Would  that  the  world  were  mine  to  give  it  you 
With  every  quiet  hearth  and  barren  waste, 
The  maddening  freedom  of  its  woods  and  tides, 
And  the  bewildering  light  upon  its  hills. 

MAIRE. 

Then  I  would  take  and  break  it  in  my  hands 
To  see  you  smile  watching  it  crumble  away. 

SHAWN. 

Then  I  would  mould  a  world  of  fire  and  dew 
With  no  one  bitter,  grave,  or  over  wise, 
And  nothing  marred  or  old  to  do  you  wrong. 
And  crowd  the  enraptured  quiet  of  the  sky 
With  candles  burning  to  your  lonely  face. 

MAIRE. 

Your  looks  are  all  the  candles  that  I  need. 

SHAWN. 

Once  a  fly  dancing  in  a  beam  of  the  sun 

Or  the  light  wind  blowing  out  of  the  dawn, 

Could  fill  your  heart  with  dreams  none  other  knew, 

But  now  the  indissoluble  sacrament 

Has  mixed  your  heart  that  was  most  proud  and  cold 

With  my  warm  heart  forever;  and  sun  and  moon 

Must  fade  and  heaven  be  rolled  up  like  a  scroll ; 

But  your  white  spirit  still  walk  by  my  spirit. 

[A  Voice  sings  in  the  distance. 

MAIRE. 

Did  you  hear  something  call?     O  guard  me  close, 
Because  I  have  said  wicked  things  to-night; 
And  seen  a  pale-faced  child  with  red-gold  hair, 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  381 

And  longed  to  dance  upon  the  winds  with  her. 
A  voice  (close  to  the  door). 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  the  day, 

The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart 

And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away, 

While  the  faeries  dance  in  a  place  apart, 

Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 

Tossing  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 

For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh,  and  murmur  and  sing 

Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair, 

And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 

But  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 

"When  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung 

The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away!" 

MAURTEEN. 

I  am  right  happy,  and  would  make  all  else 

Be  happy  too.     I  hear  a  child  outside, 

And  will  go  bring  her  in  out  of  the  cold. 

[He  opens  the  door.     A  Child  dressed  in  pale  green  and  with 

red-gold  hair  comes  into  the  house. 

CHILD. 

I  tire  of  winds  and  waters  and  pale  lights! 

MAURTEEN. 

You  are  most  welcome.     It  is  cold  out  there; 
Who  would  think  to  face  such  cold  on  a  May  Eve? 

CHILD. 

And  when  I  tire  of  this  warm  little  house 

There  is  one  here  who  must  away,  away, 

To  where  the  woods,  the  stars,  and  the  white  streams 

Are  holding  a  continual  festival. 

MAURTEEN. 

O  listen  to  her  dreamy  and  strange  talk. 
Come  to  the  fire. 
child.  I  will  sit  upon  your  knee, 

For  I  have  run  from  where  the  winds  are  born, 
And  long  to  rest  my  feet  a  little  while. 
[She  sits  upon  his  knee. 


382  THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

BRIDGET. 

How  pretty  you  are ! 
matjrteen.  Your  hair  is  wet  with  dew! 

BRIDGET. 

I  will  warm  your  chilly  feet. 

[She  takes  the  child's  feet  in  her  hands. 

MATJRTEEN. 

You  must  have  come 
A  long,  long  way,  for  I  have  never  seen 
Your  pretty  face,  and  must  be  tired  and  hungry; 
Here  is  some  bread  and  wine. 

CHILD. 

The  wine  is  bitter. 
Old  mother,  have  you  no  sweet  food  for  me? 

BRIDGET. 

I  have  some  honey ! 

[She  goes  into  the  next  room. 

MATJRTEEN. 

You  are  a  dear  child; 
The  mother  was  quite  cross  before  you  came. 
[Bridget  returns  with  the  honey,  and  goes  to  the  dresser  and 
fills  a  porringer  with  milk. 

BRIDGET. 

She  is  the  child  of  gentle  people;  look 

At  her  white  hands  and  at  her  pretty  dress. 

I  have  brought  you  some  new  milk,  but  wait  a  while, 

And  I  will  put  it  by  the  fire  to  warm, 

For  things  well  fitted  for  poor  folk  like  us 

Would  never  please  a  high-born  child  like  you. 

CHILD. 

Old  mother,  my  old  mother,  the  green  dawn 
Brightens  above  while  you  blow  up  the  fire; 
And  evening  finds  you  spreading  the  white  cloth. 
The  young  may  lie  in  bed  and  dream  and  hope, 
But  you  work  on  because  your  heart  is  old. 

BRIDGET. 

The  young  are  idle. 


THE  LAND   OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  383 

CHILD. 

Old  father,  you  are  wise 
And  all  the  years  have  gathered  in  your  heart 
To  whisper  of  the  wonders  that  are  gone. 
The  young  must  sigh  through  many  a  dream  and  hope, 
But  you  are  wise  because  your  heart  is  old. 

MAURTEEN. 

0  who  would  think  to  find  so  young  a  child 
Loving  old  age  and  wisdom? 

[Bridget  gives  her  more  bread  and  honey. 

CHILD. 

No  more,  mother. 

MAURTEEN. 

What  a  small  bite!     The  milk  is  ready  now; 
What  a  small  sip! 

CHILD. 

Put  on  my  shoes,  old  mother, 
For  I  would  like  to  dance  now  I  have  eaten. 
The  reeds  are  dancing  by  Coolaney  lake, 
And  I  would  like  to  dance  until  the  reeds 
And  the  white  waves  have  danced  themselves  to  sleep. 
[Bridget  having  put  on  her  shoes,  she  gets  off  the  old  man's 
knees  and  is  about  to  dance,  but  suddenly  sees  the  crucifix  and 
shrieks  and  covers  her  eyes. 
What  is  that  ugly  thing  on  the  black  cross? 

FATHER. 

You  cannot  know  how  naughty  your  words  are! 
That  is  our  Blessed  Lord! 

CHILD. 

Hide  it  away ! 

BRIDGET. 

1  have  begun  to  be  afraid,  again! 

CHILD. 

Hide  it  away ! 
maurteen.  That  would  be  wickedness! 

BRIDGET. 

That  would  be  sacrilege! 


384  THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S   DESIRE 


CHILD. 

The  tortured  thing! 
Hide  it  away! 

MAURTEEN. 

Her  parents  are  to  blame. 

FATHER. 

That  is  the  image  of  the  Son  of  God. 

[The  Child  puts  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kisses  him. 

CHILD. 

Hide  it  away!     Hide  it  away! 

MAURTEEN. 

No!  No! 

FATHER. 

Because  you  are  so  young  and  little  a  child 
I  will  go  take  it  down. 

CHILD. 

Hide  it  away, 
And  cover  it  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind. 
[Father   takes   it   down   and   carries   it   toward   the   inner 
room. 

FATHER. 

Since  you  have  come  into  this  barony 
I  will  instruct  you  in  our  blessed  faith: 
Being  a  clever  child  you  will  soon  learn. 

(To  the  others) 
We  must  be  tender  with  all  budding  things. 
Our  Maker  let  no  thought  of  Calvary 
Trouble  the  morning  stars  in  their  first  song. 
(Puts  the  crucifix  in  the  inner  room) 

CHILD. 

Here  is  level  ground  for  dancing.     I  will  dance. 
The  wind  is  blowing  on  the  waving  reeds, 
The  wind  is  blowing  on  the  heart  of  man. 
[She  dances,  swaying  about  like  the  reeds. 
maire  (to  Shawn). 

Just  now  when  she  came  near  I  thought  I  heard 
Other  small  steps  beating  upon  the  floor, 


THE   LAND   OF  HEARTS  DESIRE  885 


And  a  faint  music  blowing  in  the  wind, 
Invisible  pipes  giving  her  feet  the  time. 

SHAWN. 

I  heard  no  step  but  hers. 

MAIRE. 

Look  to  the  bolt! 
Because  the  unholy  powers  are  abroad. 
maurteen  (to  the  Child). 

Come  over  here,  and  if  you  promise  me 
Not  to  talk  wickedly  of  holy  things 
I  will  give  you  something. 

CHILD. 

Bring  it  me,  old  father! 

[Maurteen  goes  into  the  next  room. 

FATHER. 

I  will  have  queen  cakes  when  you  come  to  me ! 
[Maurteen  returns  and  lays  a  piece  of  money  on  the  table.   The 
Child  makes  a  gesture  of  refusal. 

MAURTEEN. 

It  will  buy  lots  of  toys;  see  how  it  glitters! 

CHILD. 

Come,  tell  me,  do  you  love  me? 

MAURTEEN. 

I  love  you! 

CHILD. 

Ah!  but  you  love  this  fireside! 

FATHER. 

I  love  you. 

CHILD. 

But  you  love  him  above. 

BRIDGET. 

She  is  blaspheming. 
child  (to  Maire). 

And  do  you  love  me? 
maire.  I  —  I  do  not  know. 

CHILD. 

You  love  that  great  tall  fellow  over  there: 


386  THE  LAND   OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Yet  I  could  make  you  ride  upon  the  winds, 
Run  on  the  top  of  the  disheveled  tide, 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains  like  a  flame! 

MAIRE. 

Queen  of  the  Angels  and  kind  Saints,  defend  us! 
Some  dreadful  fate  has  fallen :  a  while  ago 
The  wind  cried  out  and  took  the  primroses, 
And  she  ran  by  me  laughing  in  the  wind, 
And  I  gave  milk  and  fire,  and  she  came  in 
And  made  you  hide  the  blessed  crucifix. 

FATHER. 

You  fear  because  of  her  wild,  pretty  prattle; 
She  knows  no  better. 

(To  the  Child) 

Child,  how  old  are  you? 

CHILD. 

When  winter  sleep  is  abroad  my  hair  grows  thin, 
My  feet  unsteady.     When  the  leaves  awaken 
My  mother  carries  me  in  her  golden  arms. 
I  will  soon  put  on  my  womanhood  and  marry 
The  spirits  of  wood  and  water,  but  who  can  tell 
When  I  was  born  for  the  first  time?     I  think 
I  am  much  older  than  the  eagle  cock 
That  blinks  and  blinks  on  Ballygawly  Hill, 
And  he  is  the  oldest  thing  under  the  moon. 

FATHER. 

She  is  of  the  fairy  people. 

CHILD. 

I  am  Brig's  daughter. 
I  sent  my  messengers  for  milk  and  fire. 
And  then  I  heard  one  call  to  me  and  came. 
[They  all,  except  Maire,  gather  about  the  priest  for  protection. 
Maire  stays  on  the  settle  in  a  stupor  of  terror.     The  Child 
takes  primroses  from  the  great  bowl  and  begins  to  strew  them 
between  herself  and  the  priest  and  about  Maire.     During  the 
following  dialogue  Shawn  goes  more  than  once  to  the  brink  of 
the  primroses,  but  shrinks  back  to  the  others  timidly. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE  387 


FATHER. 

I  will  confront  this  mighty  spirit  alone. 
[They  cling  to  him  and  hold  him  back. 
child  (while  she  strews  the  primroses). 

No  one  whose  heart  is  heavy  with  human  tears 
Can  cross  these  little  cressets  of  the  wood. 

FATHER. 

Be  not  afraid,  the  Father  is  with  us, 

And  all  the  nine  angelic  hierarchies, 

The  Holy  Martyrs  and  the  Innocents, 

The  adoring  Magi  in  their  coats  of  mail, 

And  he  who  died  and  rose  on  the  third  day, 

And  Mary  with  her  seven  times  wounded  heart. 

(The  Child  ceases  strewing  the  'primroses,  and  kneels  upon 

the  settle  beside  Maire  and  puts  her  arms  about  her  neck) 

Cry,  daughter  to  the  Angels  and  the  Saints. 

CHILD. 

You  shall  go  with  me,  newly-married  bride, 
And  gaze  upon  a  merrier  multitude; 
White-armed  Nuala  and  Aengus  of  the  birds, 
And  Feacra  of  the  hurtling  foam,  and  him 
Who  is  the  ruler  of  the  western  host, 
Finvarra,  and  their  Land  of  Heart's  Desire, 
Where  beauty  has  no  ebb,  decay  no  flood, 
But  joy  is  wisdom,  Time  an  endless  song. 
I  kiss  you  and  the  world  begins  to  fade. 

FATHER. 

Daughter,  I  call  you  unto  home  and  love! 

CHILD. 

Stay,  and  come  with  me,  newly-married  bride, 
For,  if  you  hear  him,  you  grow  like  the  rest : 
Bear  children,  cook,  be  mindful  of  the  churn, 
And  wrangle  over  butter,  fowl,  and  eggs, 
And  sit  at  last  there,  old  and  bitter  tongue, 
Watching  the  white  stars  war  upon  your  hopes. 

FATHER. 

Daughter,  I  point  you  out  the  way  to  heaven. 


388  THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

CHILD. 

But  I  can  lead  you,  newly-married  bride, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  crafty  and  wise, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  godly  and  grave, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  bitter  of  tongue, 
And  where  kind  tongues  bring  no  captivity, 
For  we  are  only  true  to  the  far  lights 
We  follow  singing,  over  valley  and  hill. 

FATHER. 

By  the  dear  name  of  the  one  crucified, 
I  bid  you,  Maire  Bruin,  come  to  me. 

CHILD. 

I  keep  you  in  the  name  of  your  own  heart ! 
(She  leaves  the  settle,  and  stooping  takes  up  a  mass  of  prim- 
roses and  kisses  them) 

We  have  great  power  to-night,  dear  golden  folk, 
For  he  took  down  and  hid  the  crucifix. 
And  my  invisible  brethren  fill  the  house; 
I  hear  their  footsteps  going  up  and  down. 

0  they  shall  soon  rule  all  the  hearts  of  men 

And  own  all  lands;  last  night  they  merrily  danced 
About  his  chapel  belfry !     (To  Maire)     Come  away, 

1  hear  my  brethren  bidding  us  away ! 

FATHER. 

I  will  go  fetch  the  crucifix  again. 

[They  hang  about  him  in  terror  and  prevent  him  from  moving. 

BRIDGET. 

The  enchanted  flowers  will  kill  us  if  you  go. 

MAURTEEN. 

They  turn  the  flowers  to  little  twisted  flames. 

SHAWN. 

The  little  twisted  flames  burn  up  the  heart. 

CHILD. 

I  hear  them  crying,  "Newly  married  bride, 
Come  to  the  woods  and  waters  and  pale  lights." 

MAIRE. 

I  will  go  with  you. 


THE  LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE  389 


FATHER. 

She  is  lost,  alas ! 
child  (standing  by  the  door). 

But  clinging  mortal  hope  must  fall  from  you 
For  we  who  ride  the  winds,  run  on  the  waves, 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains,  are  more  light 
Than  dewdrops  on  the  banners  of  the  dawn. 

MAIRE. 

0  take  me  with  you. 
[Shawn  goes  over  to  her. 

SHAWN. 

Beloved,  do  not  leave  me! 
Remember  when  I  met  you  by  the  well 
And  took  your  hand  in  mine  and  spoke  of  love. 

MAIRE. 

Dear  face!     Dear  voice! 

CHILD. 

Come,  newly-married  bride! 

MAIRE. 

1  always  loved  her  world  —  and  yet  —  and  yet 

[Sinks  into  his  arms. 

child  (from  the  door). 

White  bird,  white  bird,  come  with  me,  little  bird. 

MAIRE. 

She  calls  to  me! 

CHILD. 

Come  with  me,  little  bird! 

MAIRE. 

I  can  hear  songs  and  dancing! 

SHAWN. 

Stay  with  me. 

MAIRE. 

I  think  that  I  would  stay  —  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

CHILD. 

Come,  little  bird  with  crest  of  gold ! 
maire  (very  softly). 

And  yet 


390  THE  LAND   OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

CHILD. 

Come,  little  bird  with  silver  feet! 
[Maire  dies,  and  the  child  goes. 

SHAWN. 

She  is  dead! 

BRIDGET. 

Come  from  that  image:  body  and  soul  are  gone, 
You  have  thrown  your  arms  about  a  drift  of  leaves 
Or  bole  of  an  ash-tree  changed  into  her  image. 

FATHER. 

Thus  do  the  spirits  of  evil  snatch  their  prey 
Almost  out  of  the  very  hand  of  God; 
And  day  by  day  their  power  is  more  and  more, 
And  men  and  women  leave  old  paths,  for  pride 
Comes  knocking  with  thin  knuckles  on  the  heart. 
A  voice  (singing  outside). 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  the  day, 

The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart 

And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away, 

While  the  faeries  dance  in  a  place  apart, 

Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 

Tossing  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 

For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh,  and  murmur  and  sing 

Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair, 

And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 

But  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 

"When  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung 

The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away ! " 

[The  song  is  taken  up  by  many  voices,  wlw  sing  loudly,  as 

if  in  triumph.     Some  of  the  voices  seem  to  come  from  within 

the  house. 

CURTAIN 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

J.  M.  SYNGE 

Edmund  John  Millington  Synge  was  born  near  Dublin, 
at  Newtown  Little,  in  1871.  Little  is  recorded  of  his  early- 
life,  except  that  he  remained  at  home  until  he  was  almost 
twenty,  and  that  he  graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
in  1892.  Endowed  with  a  natural  taste  for  music  and  travel, 
he  wandered  through  Europe  —  with  his  violin  —  for  some 
years.  He  went  first  to  Germany,  intending  to  study  music 
seriously,  but  decided  to  return  to  Paris,  where  he  devoted 
himself  to  literary  hack-work  of  various  kinds.  There  he 
wrote  a  few  poems  and  contributed  occasional  articles  to 
English  reviews.  It  was  not,  however,  until  he  was  "dis- 
covered" by  Yeats,  who  in  1898  persuaded  him  to  return  to 
Ireland  and  study  the  primitive  folk  in  unfrequented  dis- 
tricts, that  he  began  to  do  significant  work.  Yeats  induced 
Synge  to  write  for  the  then  recently  founded  Irish  Theater. 
In  the  Aran  Islands,  in  Kerry  and  Wicklow  and  Connemara, 
he  wandered,  finding  among  the  people  with  whom  he  lived 
the  characters  which  he  incorporated  in  his  plays  of  Irish 
life.     He  died  of  cancer  in  1909,  in  Dublin. 

"He  loves,"  says  Yeats,  "all  that  has  edge,  all  that  is  salt 
in  the  mouth,  all  that  is  rough  to  the  hand,  all  that  heightens 
the  emotions  by  contest,  all  that  stings  into  life  the  sense  of 
tragedy.  .  .  .  The  food  of  the  spiritual-minded  is  sweet, 
an  Indian  scripture  says,  but  passionate  minds  love  bitter 
food." 

"Riders  to  the  Sea"  is  the  most  direct  and  compact  of  all 
Synge's  plays.  Less  highly  colored  in  language  than 
"Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows"  and  lacking  the  purely  imaginative 


392  RIDERS  TO  THE   SEA 

force  of  "The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World  ",  it  is  without 
doubt  the  dramatist's  best  sustained  effort.  Synge's  own 
words  on  the  drama  should  be  pondered  in  connection  with 
the  reading  of  this  play :  "  The  drama  is  made  serious  —  in  the 
French  sense  of  the  word  —  not  by  the  degree  in  which  it  is 
taken  up  with  problems  that  are  serious  in  themselves,  but 
by  the  degree  in  which  it  gives  the  nourishment,  not  very 
easy  to  define,  on  which  our  imaginations  live.  .  .  .  The 
drama,  like  the  symphony,  does  not  teach  or  prove  anything." 

PLAYS 

*The  Shadow  of  the  Glen  The  Tinker's  Wedding 

(1902)  (1909) 

*Riders  to  the  Sea  (1904)  Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows 

The  Well  of  the  Saints  (1910) 

(1905) 
The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World  (1907) 

All  Synge's  plays  are  published  separately  by  John  W. 
Luce  and  Company,  Boston. 

References:  Francis  Bickley,  "J.  M.  Synge  and  the  Irish 
Dramatic  Movement ",  Houghton,  Mifflin  Company,  Boston; 
Maurice  Bourgeois,  "John  Millington  Synge  and  the  Irish 
Theater",  Macmillan  Company,  New  York;  John  Masefield, 
"John  M.  Synge",  Macmillan;  P.  P.  Howe,  "J.  M.  Synge", 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company,  New  York;  and  "Dramatic 
Portraits  ",  Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York;  C.  E.  Montague, 
"Dramatic  Values  ",  Macmillan;  W.  B.  Yeats,  "The  Cutting 
of  an  Agate",  Macmillan;  Darrell  Figgis,  "Studies  and  Ap- 
preciations ",  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company,  New  York;  James 
Huneker,  "The  Pathos  of  Distance",  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  New  York;  J.  M.  Synge,  "The  Aran  Islands",  and 
"In  Kerry  and  Wicklow",  John  W.  Luce  and  Company, 
Boston. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  393 

Magazines:  Contemporary  Review,  vol.  xciv,  p.  470, 
London;  The  Dial,  vol.  1,  p.  37,  vol.  liv,  p.  233,  New  York; 
The  Living  Age,  vol.  cclxix,  p.  163,  and  vol.  cclxxx,  p.  777, 
Boston;  The  Nation,  vol.  xciii,  p.  376,  and  vol.  xcv,  p.  608, 
New  York;  Yale  Review,  vol.  i,  p.  192,  and  vol.  ii,  p.  767,  New 
Haven;  The  Forum,  vol.  xlvii,  p.  55,  New  York;  Current  Lit- 
erature, vol.  liii,  p.  695,  New  York. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 


By  J.  M.  SYNGE 


Riders  to  the  Sea"  was  first  produced  at  Dublin  in  1904. 

Characters 

Maurya,  an  old  woman 
Bartley,  her  son 
Cathleen,  her  daughter 
Nora,  a  younger  daughter 
Men  and  Women 


Copyright,  1916,  by  L.  E.  Bassett. 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Messrs.  John  W.  Luce  and  Company, 
of  Boston. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Scene.     An  Island  off  the  West  of  Ireland.   Cottage  kitchen, 

with  nets,  oil-skins,  spinning  wheel,  some  new  boards  standing 

by  the  wall,  etc.     Cathleen,  a  girl  of  about  twenty,  finishes 

kneading  cake,  and  puts  it  down  in  the  pot-oven  by  the  fire;  then 

wipes  her  hands,  and  begins  to  spin  at  the  wheel.     Nora,  a 

young  girl,  puts  her  head  in  at  the  door. 

nora  (in  a  loio  voice).     Where  is  she? 

cathleen.  She's  lying  down,  God  help  her,  and  may  be 
sleeping,  if  she's  able. 

[Nora  comes  in  softly,  and  takes  a  bundle  from  under  her 
shawl. 

cathleen  (spinning  the  wheel  rapidly).   What  is  it  you  have? 

nora.  The  young  priest  is  after  bringing  them.  It's  a  shirt 
and  a  plain  stocking  were  got  off  a  drowned  man  in 
Donegal. 

[Cathleen  stops  her  wheel  with  a  sudden  movement,  and  leans 
out  to  listen. 

nora.  We're  to  find  out  if  it's  Michael's  they  are,  some 
time  herself  will  be  down  looking  by  the  sea. 

cathleen.  How  would  they  be  Michael's,  Nora?  How 
would  he  go  the  length  of  that  way  to  the  far  north? 

nora.  The  young  priest  says  he's  known  the  like  of  it. 
"If  it's  Michael's  they  are  ",  says  he,  "you  can  tell  herself 
he's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  if  they're 
not  his,  let  no  one  say  a  word,  about  them,  for  she'll  be 
getting  her  death  ",  says  he,  "with  crying  and  lamenting." 
[The  door  which  Nora  half  closed  is  blown  open  by  a  gust  of 
wind. 

cathleen  (looking  out  anxiously).  Did  you  ask  him  would 
he  stop  Bartley  going  this  day  with  the  horses  to  the  Gal- 
way  fair? 


398  RIDERS  TO  THE   SEA 

nora.  "I  won't  stop  him",  says  he,  "but  let  you  not  be 
afraid.  Herself  does  be  saying  prayers  half  through  the 
night,  and  the  Almighty  God  won't  leave  her  destitute  ", 
says  he,  "with  no  son  living." 

cathleen.     Is  the  sea  bad  by  the  white  rocks,  Nora? 

nora.  Middling  bad,  God  help  us.  There's  a  great  roaring 
in  the  west,  and  it's  worse  it'll  be  getting  when  the  tide's 
turned  to  the  wind.  (She  goes  over  to  the  table  with  the 
bundle)     Shall  I  open  it  now? 

cathleen.  Maybe  she'd  wake  up  on  us,  and  come  in  be- 
fore we'd  done.  (Coming  to  the  table)  It's  a  long  time 
we'll  be,  and  the  two  of  us  crying. 

nora  (goes  to  the  inner  door  and  listens) .  She's  moving  about 
on  the  bed.     She'll  be  coming  in  a  minute. 

cathleen.  Give  me  the  ladder,  and  I'll  put  them  up  in  the 
turf-loft,  the  way  she  won't  know  of  them  at  all,  and 
maybe  when  the  tide  turns  she'll  be  going  down  to  see 
would  he  be  floating  from  the  east. 

[They  put  the  ladder  against  the  gable  of  the  chimney;  Cath- 
leen goes  up  a  few  steps  and  hides  the  bundle  in  the  turf-loft. 
Maury  a  comes  from  the  inner  room. 

maurya  (looking  up  at  Cathleen  and  speaking  querulously). 
Isn't  it  turf  enough  you  have  for  this  day  and  evening? 

cathleen.     There's  a  cake  baking  at  the  fire  for  a  short 
space  (throwing  down  the  turf)  and  Bartley  will  want  it 
when  the  tide  turns  if  he  goes  to  Connemara. 
[Nora  picks  up  the  turf  and  puts  it  round  the  pot-oven. 

maurya  (sitting  down  on  a  stool  at  the  fire).  He  won't  go  this 
day  with  the  wind  rising  from  the  south  and  west.  He 
won't  go  this  day,  for  the  young  priest  will  stop  him 
surely. 

nora.  He'll  not  stop  him,  mother,  and  I  heard  Eamon 
Simon  and  Stephen  Pheety  and  Colum  Shawn  saying  he 
would  go. 

maurya.     Where  is  he  itself? 

nora.  He  went  down  to  see  would  there  be  another  boat 
sailing  in  the  week,  and  I'm  thinking  it  won't  be  long  till 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  399 

he's  here  now,  for  the  tide's  turning  at  the  green  head, 
and  the  hooker's  tacking  from  the  east. 

cathleen.     I  hear  some  one  passing  the  big  stones. 

nora  (looking  out).     He's  coming  now,  and  he  in  a  hurry. 

bartley  (comes  in  and  looks  round  the  room.  Speaking  sadly 
and  quietly).  Where  is  the  bit  of  new  rope,  Cathleen,  was 
bought  in  Connemara? 

cathleen  (coming  down).  Give  it  to  him,  Nora;  it's  on  a 
nail  by  the  white  boards.  I  hung  it  up  this  morning,  for 
the  pig  with  the  black  feet  was  eating  it. 

nora  (giving  him  a  rope).     Is  that  it,  Bartley? 

maurya.  You'd  do  right  to  leave  that  rope,  Bartley,  hang- 
ing by  the  boards.  (Bartley  takes  the  rope)  It  will  be  want- 
ing in  this  place,  I'm  telling  you,  if  Michael  is  washed  up 
to-morrow  morning,  or  the  next  morning,  or  any  morning 
in  the  week,  for  it's  a  deep  grave  we'll  make  him  by  the 
grace  of  God. 

bartley  (beginning  to  work  with  the  rope).  I've  no  halter 
the  way  I  can  ride  down  on  the  mare,  and  I  must  go  now 
quickly.  This  is  the  one  boat  going  for  two  weeks  or 
beyond  it,  and  the  fair  will  be  a  good  fair  for  horses  I  heard 
them  saying  below. 

maurya.     It's  a  hard  thing  they'll  be  saying  below  if  the 
body  is  washed  up  and  there's  no  man  in  it  to  make  the 
coffin,  and  I  after  giving  a  big  price  for  the  finest  white 
boards  you'd  find  in  Connemara. 
[She  looks  round  at  the  boards. 

bartley.  How  would  it  be  washed  up,  and  we  after  look- 
ing each  day  for  nine  days,  and  a  strong  wind  blowing  a 
while  back  from  the  west  and  south? 

maurya.  If  it  wasn't  found  itself,  that  wind  is  raising  the 
sea,  and  there  was  a  star  up  against  the  moon,  and  it 
rising  in  the  night.  If  it  was  a  hundred  horses,  or  a  thou- 
sand horses  you  had  itself,  what  is  the  price  of  a  thousand 
horses  against  a  son  where  there  is  one  son  only? 

bartley  (working  at  the  halter,  to  Cathleen).  Let  you  go 
down  each  day,  and  see  the  sheep  aren't  jumping  in  on  the 


400  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

rye,  and  if  the  jobber  comes  you  can  sell  the  pig  with  the 
black  feet  if  there  is  a  good  price  going. 

maurya.  How  would  the  like  of  her  get  a  good  price  for  a 
pig? 

bartley  (to  Cathleen).  If  the  west  wind  holds  with  the  last 
bit  of  the  moon  let  you  and  Nora  get  up  weed  enough  for 
another  cock  for  the  kelp.  It's  hard  set  we'll  be  from  this 
day  with  no  one  in  it  but  one  man  to  work. 

maurya.  It's  hard  set  we'll  be  surely  the  day  you're 
drownd'd  with  the  rest.  What  way  will  I  live  and  the 
girls  with  me,  and  I  an  old  woman  looking  for  the  grave? 
[Bartley  lays  down  the  halter,  takes  off  his  old  coat,  and  puts 
on  a  newer  one  of  the  same  flannel. 

bartley  (to  Nora).     Is  she  coming  to  the  pier? 

nora  (looking  out).  She's  passing  the  green  head  and  letting 
fall  her  sails. 

bartley  (getting  his  purse  and  tobacco).  I'll  have  half  an 
hour  to  go  down,  and  you'll  see  me  coming  again  in  two 
days,  or  in  three  days,  or  maybe  in  four  days  if  the  wind 
is  bad. 

maurya  (turning  round  to  the  fire,  and  putting  her  shawl  over 
her  head).  Isn't  it  a  hard  and  cruel  man  won't  hear  a 
word  from  an  old  woman,  and  she  holding  him  from  the 
sea? 

cathleen.  It's  the  life  of  a  young  man  to  be  going  on  the 
sea,  and  who  would  listen  to  an  old  woman  with  one  thing 
and  she  saying  it  over? 

bartley  (taking  the  halter).     I  must  go  now  quickly.     I'll 
ride  down  on  the  red  mare,  and  the  gray  pony'll  run  be- 
hind me.    .    .    .   The  blessing  of  God  on  you. 
[He  goes  out. 

maurya  (crying  out  as  he  is  in  the  door).  He's  gone  now, 
God  spare  us,  and  we'll  not  see  him  again.  He's  gone 
now,  and  when  the  black  night  is  falling  I'll  have  no  son 
left  me  in  the  world. 

cathleen.  Why  wouldn't  you  give  him  your  blessing  and 
he  looking  round  in  the  door?     Isn't  it  sorrow  enough  is 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  401 

on  every  one  in  this  house  without  your  sending  him  out 
with  an  unlucky  word  behind  him,  and  a  hard  word  in  his 
ear? 

[Maurya  takes  up  the  tongs  and  begins  raking  the  fire  aim- 
lessly without  looking  round. 

nora  (turning  towards  her).  You're  taking  away  the  turf 
from  the  cake. 

cathleen  (crying  out).     The  Son  of  God  forgive  us,  Nora, 
we're  after  forgetting  his  bit  of  bread. 
[She  comes  over  to  the  fire. 

nora.  And  it's  destroyed  he'll  be  going  till  dark  night,  and 
he  after  eating  nothing  since  the  sun  went  up. 

cathleen  (turning  the  cake  out  of  the  oven).    It's  destroyed 
he'll  be,  surely.    There's  no  sense  left  on  any  person  in  a 
house  where  an  old  woman  will  be  talking  for  ever. 
[Maurya  sways  herself  on  her  stool. 

cathleen  (cutting  off  some  of  the  bread  and  rolling  it  in  a 
cloth;  to  Maurya).  Let  you  go  down  now  to  the  spring 
well  and  give  him  this  and  he  passing.  You'll  see  him  then 
and  the  dark  word  will  be  broken,  and  you  can  say  "God 
speed  you,"  the  way  he'll  be  easy  in  his  mind. 

maurya  (taking  the  bread).     Will  I  be  in  it  as  soon  as  himself? 

cathleen.     If  you  go  now  quickly. 

maurya  (standing  up  unsteadily).     It's  hard  set  I  am  to  walk. 

cathleen  (looking  at  her  anxiously).  Give  her  the  stick, 
Nora,  or  maybe  she'll  slip  on  the  big  stones. 

nora.     What  stick? 

cathleen.     The  stick  Michael  brought  from  Connemara. 

maurya  (taking  a  stick  Nora  gives  her).     In  the  big  world 
the  old  people  do  be  leaving  things  after  them  for  their 
sons  and  children,  but  in  this  place  it  is  the  young  men  do 
be  leaving  things  behind  for  them  that  do  be  old. 
[She  goes  out  slowly.    Nora  goes  over  to  the  ladder. 

cathleen.  Wait,  Nora,  maybe  she'd  turn  back  quickly. 
She's  that  sorry,  God  help  her,  you  wouldn't  know  the 
thing  she'd  do. 

nora.     Is  she  gone  round  by  the  bush? 


402  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

cathleen  (looking  out).     She's  gone  now.     Throw  it  clown 

quickly,  for  the  Lord  knows  when  she'll  be  out  of  it 

again. 
nora  (getting  the  bundle  from  the  loft).     The  young  priest 

said  he'd  be  passing  to-morrow,  and  we  might  go  down 

and  speak  to  him  below  if  it's  Michael's  they  are  surely. 
cathleen  (taking  the  bundle).     Did  he  say  what  way  they 

were  found? 
nora    (coming  down).     "There  were  two  men,"   says  he, 

"and  they  rowing  round  with  poteen  before  the  cocks 

crowed,  and  the  oar  of  one  of  them  caught  the  body,  and 

they  passing  the  black  cliffs  of  the  north." 
cathleen   (trying  to  open  the  bundle).     Give  me  a  knife, 

Nora,  the  string's  perished  with  the  salt  water,  and  there's 

a  black  knot  on  it  you  wouldn't  loosen  in  a  week. 
nora  (giving  her  a  knife).     I've  heard  tell  it  was  a  long  way 

to  Donegal. 
cathleen  (cutting  the  string).     It  is  surely.     There  was  a 

man  in  here  a  while  ago  —  the  man  sold  us  that  knife  — 

and  he  said  if  you  set  off  walking  from  the  rocks  beyond, 

it  would  be  seven  days  you'd  be  in  Donegal. 
nora.     And  what  time  would  a  man  take,  and  he  floating? 

[Cathleen  opens  the  bundle  and  takes  out  a  bit  of  a  stocking. 

They  look  at  them  eagerly. 
cathleen  (in  a  low  voice).     The  Lord  spare  us,  Nora!  isn't 

it  a  queer  hard  thing  to  say  if  it's  his  they  are  surely? 
nora.     I'll  get  his  shirt  off  the  hook  the  way  we  can  put  the 

one  flannel  on  the  other.     (She  looks  through  some  clothes 

hanging  in  the  corner)     It's  not  with  them,  Cathleen,  and 

where  will  it  be? 
cathleen.     I'm  thinking   Bartley  put   it  on    him   in  the 

morning,  for  his  own  shirt  was  heavy  with  the  salt  in  it. 

(Pointing  to  the  corner)     There's  a  bit  of  a  sleeve  was  of 

the  same  stuff.     Give  me  that  and  it  will  do. 

[Nora  brings  it  to  her  and  they  compare  the  flannel. 
cathleen.     It's  the  same  stuff,  Nora;  but  if  it  is  itself  aren't 

there  great  rolls  of  it  in  the  shops  of  Galway,  and  isn't 


RIDERS   TO  THE   SEA  403 

it  many  another  man  may  have  a  shirt  of  it  as  well  as 
Michael  himself? 

nora  (who  has  taken  up  the  stocking  and  counted  the  stitches, 
crying  out).  It's  Michael,  Cathleen,  it's  Michael;  God 
spare  his  soul,  and  what  will  herself  say  when  she  hears 
this  story,  and  Bartley  on  the  sea? 

cathleen  (taking  the  stocking).     It's  a  plain  stocking. 

nora.  It's  the  second  one  of  the  third  pair  I  knitted,  and 
I  put  up  three  score  stitches,  and  I  dropped  four  of 
them. 

cathleen  (counts  the  stitches) .  It's  that  number  is  in  it 
(crying  out).  Ah,  Nora,  isn't  it  a  bitter  thing  to  think  of 
him  floating  that  way  to  the  far  north,  and  no  one  to  keen 
him  but  the  black  hags  that  do  be  flying  on  the  sea? 

nora  (swinging  herself  round,  and  hrowing  out  her  arms  on 
the  clothes).  And  isn't  it  a  pitiful  thing  when  there  is 
nothing  left  of  a  man  who  was  a  great  rower  and  fisher, 
but  a  bit  of  an  old  shirt  and  a  plain  stocking? 

cathleen  (after  an  instant).  Tell  me  is  herself  coming, 
Nora?     I  hear  a  little  sound  on  the  path. 

nora  (looking  out).  She  is,  Cathleen.  She's  coming  up  to 
the  door. 

cathleen.  Put  these  things  away  before  she'll  come  in. 
Maybe  it's  easier  she'll  be  after  giving  her  blessing  to 
Bartley,  and  we  won't  let  on  we've  heard  anything  the 
time  he's  on  the  sea. 

nora  (helping  Cathleen  to  close  the  bundle).  We'll  put  them 
here  in  the  corner. 

[They  put  them  into  a  hole  in  the  chimney  corner.    Cathleen 
goes  back  to  the  spinning  wheel. 

nora.     Will  she  see  it  was  crying  I  was? 

cathleen.  Keep  your  back  to  the  door  the  way  the  light'll 
not  be  on  you.  (Nora  sits  down  at  the  chimney  corner, 
with  her  back  to  the  door.  Maury  a  comes  in  very  slowly, 
without  looking  at  the  girls,  and  goes  over  to  her  stool  at  the 
other  side  of  the  fire.  The  cloth  with  the  bread  is  still  in  her 
hand.     The  girls  look  at  each  other,  and  Nora  points  to  the 


404  RIDERS  TO  THE   SEA 


bundle  of  bread.     Cathleen,  after  spinning  for  a  moment) 

You  didn't  give  him  his  bit  of  bread? 

[Maurya  begins  to  keen  softly,  without  turning  round. 
cathleen.     Did  you  see  him  riding  down?     (Maurya  goes 

on  keening.     A  little  impatiently)     God  forgive  you;  isn't 

it  a  better  thing  to  raise  your  voice  and  tell  what  you  seen, 

than  to  be  making  lamentation  for  a  thing  that's  done? 

Did  you  see  Bartley?  I'm  saying  to  you. 
maurya  (with  a  weak  voice).     My  heart's  broken  from  this 

day. 
cathleen  (as  before).     Did  you  see  Bartley? 
maurya.     I  seen  the  fearfulest  thing. 
cathleen  (leaves  her  wheel  and  looks  out).     God  forgive  you; 

he's  riding  the  mare  now  over  the  green  head,  and  the  gray 

pony  behind  him. 
maurya  (starts,  so  that  her  shawl  falls  back  from  her  head  and 

shows  her  white  tossed  hair.     With  a  frightened  voice).     The 

gray  pony  behind  him. 
cathleen  (coming  to  the  fire).     What  is  it  ails  you,  at  all? 
maurya    (speaking   very   slowly).     I've   seen   the   fearfulest 

thing  any  person  has  seen,  since  the  day  Bride  Dara  seen 

the  dead  man  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

CATHLEEN  AND  NORA.      Uah. 

[They  crouch  down  in  front  of  the  old  woman  at  the  fire. 
nora.     Tell  us  what  it  is  you  seen. 
maurya.     I  went  down  to  the  spring  well,  and  I  stood  there 

saying  a  prayer  to  myself.     Then  Bartley  came  along,  and 

he  riding  on  the  red  mare  with  the  gray  pony  behind  him. 

(She  puts  up  her  hands,  as  if  to  hide  something  from  her  eyes) 

The  Son  of  God  spare  us,  Nora! 
cathleen.     What  is  it  you  seen? 
maurya.     I  seen  Michael  himself. 
cathleen  (speaking  softly) .    You  did  not,  mother.    It  wasn't 

Michael  you  seen,  for  his  body  is  after  being  found  in 

the  far  north,  and  he's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of 

God. 
maurya  (a  little  defiantly).     I'm  after  seeing  him  this  day, 


RIDERS  TO  THE   SEA  405 

and  he  riding  and  galloping.  Bartley  came  first  on  the  red 
mare;  and  I  tried  to  say  "God  speed  you,"  but  something 
choked  the  words  in  my  throat.  He  went  by  quickly; 
and  "the  blessing  of  God  on  you,"  says  he,  and  I  could 
say  nothing.  I  looked  up  then,  and  I  crying,  at  the  gray 
pony,  and  there  was  Michael  upon  it  —  with  fine  clothes 
on  him,  and  new  shoes  on  his  feet. 

CATHLeen  (begins  to  keen).  It's  destroyed  we  are  from  this 
day.     It's  destroyed,  surely. 

xora.  Didn't  the  young  priest  say  the  Almighty  God 
wouldn't  leave  her  destitute  with  no  son  living? 

maurya  (in  a  low  voice,  but  clearly).  It's  little  the  like  of 
him  knows  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  Bartley  will  be  lost  now,  and 
let  you  call  in  Eamon  and  make  me  a  good  coffin  out  of 
the  white  boards,  for  I  won't  live  after  them.  I've  had  a 
husband,  and  a  husband's  father,  and  six  sons  in  this 
house  —  six  fine  men,  though  it  was  a  hard  birth  I  had  with 
every  one  of  them  and  they  coming  to  the  world  —  and 
some  of  them  were  found  and  some  of  them  were  not  found, 
but  they're  gone  now  the  lot  of  them.  .  .  .  There  were 
Stephen,  and  Shawn,  were  lost  in  the  great  wind,  and 
found  after  in  the  Bay  of  Gregory  of  the  Golden  Mouth, 
and  carried  up  the  two  of  them  on  the  one  plank,  and  in  by 
that  door. 

[She  pauses  for  a  moment,  the  girls  start  as  if  they  heard 
something  through  the  door  that  is  half  open  behind  them. 

nora  (in  a  whisper).  Did  you  hear  that,  Cathleen?  Did 
you  hear  a  noise  in  the  north-east? 

cathleen  (in  a  whisper).  There's  some  one  after  cry- 
ing out  by  the  seashore. 

maurya  (continues  without  hearing  anything).  There  was 
Sheamus  and  his  father,  and  his  own  father  again,  were  lost 
in  a  dark  night,  and  not  a  stick  or  sign  was  seen  of  them 
when  the  sun  went  up.  There  was  Patch  after  was 
drowned  out  of  a  curagh  that  turned  over.  I  was  sitting 
here  with  Bartley,  and  he  a  baby,  lying  on  my  two  knees, 
and  I  seen  two  women,  and  three  women,  and  four  women 


406  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

coming  in,  and  they  crossing  themselves,  and  not  saying 
a  word.  I  looked  out  then,  and  there  were  men  coming 
after  them,  and  they  holding  a  thing  in  the  half  of  a  red 
sail,  and  water  dripping  out  of  it  —  it  was  a  dry  day, 
Nora  —  and  leaving  a  track  to  the  door.  (She  pauses  again 
with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door.  It  opens 
softly  and  old  women  begin  to  come  in,  crossing  themselves  on 
the  threshold,  and  kneeling  down  in  front  of  the  stage  with  red 
petticoats  over  their  heads.  Half  in  a  dream,  to  Cathleen) 
Is  it  Patch,  or  Michael,  or  what  is  it  at  all? 

cathleen.  Michael  is  after  being  found  in  the  far  north,  and 
when  he  is  found  there  how  could  he  be  here  in  this  place? 

MAUrya.  There  does  be  a  power  of  young  men  floating 
round  in  the  sea,  and  what  way  would  they  know  if  it 
was  Michael  they  had,  or  another  man  like  him,  for  when 
a  man  is  nine  days  in  the  sea,  and  the  wind  blowing,  it's 
hard  set  his  own  mother  would  be  to  say  what  man  was  it. 

cathleen.     It's  Michael,  God  spare  him,  for  they're  after 
sending  us  a  bit  of  his  clothes  from  the  far  north. 
[She  reaches  out  and  hands  Maurya  the  clothes  that  belonged 
to  Michael.     Maurya  stands  up  slowly,  and  takes  them  in 
her  hands.     Nora  looks  out. 

nora.  They're  carrying  a  thing  among  them  and  there's 
water  dripping  out  of  it  and  leaving  a  track  by  the  big 
stones. 

cathleen  (in  a  whisper  to  the  women  who  have  come  in).  Is 
it  Bartley  it  is? 

one  of  the  women.     It  is  surely,  God  rest  his  soul. 

[Two  younger  women  come  in  and  pull  out  the  table.  Then 
men  carry  in  the  body  of  Bartley,  laid  on  a  plank,  with  a  bit 
of  a  sail  over  it,  and  lay  it  on  the  table. 

cathleen  (to  the  women,  as  they  are  doing  so).  What  way 
was  he  drowned? 

one  of  the  women.     The  gray  pony  knocked  him  into  the 
sea,  and  he  was  washed  out  where  there  is  a  great  surf 
on  the  white  rocks. 
[Maurya  has  gone  over  and  knelt  down  at  the  head  of  the  table. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  407 

The  women  are  keening  softly  and  swaying  themselves  with 
a  slow  movement.  Cathleen  and  Nora  kneel  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table.     The  men  kneel  at  the  door. 

maurya  (raising  her  head  and  speaking  as  if  she  did  not  see 
the  people  around  her).  They're  all  gone  now,  and  there 
isn't  anything  more  the  sea  can  do  to  me.  .  .  .  I'll  have 
no  call  now  to  be  up  crying  and  praying  when  the  wind 
breaks  from  the  south,  and  you  can  hear  the  surf  is  in  the 
east,  and  the  surf  is  in  the  west,  making  a  great  stir  with 
the  two  noises,  and  they  hitting  one  on  the  other.  I'll 
have  no  call  now  to  be  going  down  and  getting  Holy  Water 
in  the  dark  nights  after  Samhain,  and  I  won't  care  what 
way  the  sea  is  when  the  other  women  will  be  keening. 
(To  Nora)  Give  me  the  Holy  Water,  Nora,  there's  a 
small  sup  still  on  the  dresser.  (Nora  gives  it  to  her.  Maurya 
drops  Michael's  clothes  across  Bartley's  feet,  and  sprinkles 
the  Holy  Water  over  him)  It  isn't  that  I  haven't  prayed 
for  you,  Bartley,  to  the  Almighty  God.  It  isn't  that  I 
haven't  said  prayers  in  the  dark  night  till  you  wouldn't 
know  what  I'd  be  saying;  but  it's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now, 
and  it's  time  surely.  It's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now,  and 
great  sleeping  in  the  long  nights  after  Samhain,  if  it's 
only  a  bit  of  wet  flour  we  do  have  to  eat,  and  maybe  a 
fish  that  would  be  stinking. 

[She  kneels  down  again,  crossing  herself,  and  saying  prayers 
under  her  breath. 

cathleen  (to  an  old  man).  Maybe  yourself  and  Eamon 
would  make  a  coffin  when  the  sun  rises.  We  have  fine 
white  boards  herself  bought,  God  help  her,  thinking 
Michael  would  be  found,  and  I  have  a  new  cake  you  can 
eat  while  you'll  be  working. 

the  old  man  (looking  at  the  boards).  Are  there  nails  with 
them? 

cathleen.  There  are  not,  Colum;  we  didn't  think  of  the 
nails. 

another  man.  It's  a  great  wonder  she  wouldn't  think  of 
the  nails,  and  all  the  coffins  she's  seen  made  already. 


408  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

cathleen.     It's  getting  old  she  is,  and  broken. 

[Maurya  stands  up  again  very  slowly  and  spreads  out  the 
pieces  of  Michael's  clothes  beside  the  body,  sprinkling  them 
with  the  last  of  the  Holy  Water. 

nora  (in  a  whisper  to  Cathleen).  She's  quiet  now  and  easy; 
but  the  day  Michael  was  drowned  you  could  hear  her  cry- 
ing out  from  this  to  the  spring  well.  It's  fonder  she  was 
of  Michael,  and  would  any  one  have  thought  that? 

cathleen  (slowly  and  clearly).  An  old  woman  will  be  soon 
tired  with  anything  she  will  do,  and  isn't  it  nine  days 
herself  is  after  crying  and  keening,  and  making  great  sor- 
row in  the  house? 

maurya  (puts  the  empty  cup  mouth  downwards  on  the  table, 
and  lays  her  hands  together  on  Bartley's  feet) .  They're  all 
together  this  time,  and  the  end  is  come.  May  the  Al- 
mighty God  have  mercy  on  Bartley's  soul,  and  on  Michael's 
soul,  and  on  the  souls  of  Sheamus  and  Patch,  and  Stephen 
and  Shawn  (bending  her  head) ;  and  may  He  have  mercy  on 
my  soul,  Nora,  and  on  the  soul  of  every  one  is  left  living 
in  the  world.  (She  pauses,  and  the  keen  rises  a  little  more 
loudly  from  the  women,  then  sinks  away.  Continuing) 
Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the  far  north,  by  the  grace  of 
the  Almighty  God.  Bartley  will  have  a  fine  coffin  out  of 
the  white  boards,  and  a  deep  grave  surely.  What  more 
can  we  want  than  that?  No  man  at  all  can  be  living  for 
ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied. 
[She  kneels  down  again  and  the  curtain  falls  slowly. 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

LADY  GREGORY 

Lady  Augusta  Gregory  was  born  at  Roxborough, 
County  Gal  way,  Ireland,  in  1859.  Unlike  most  successful 
dramatists,  she  began  writing  plays  late  in  life.  Her  literary 
work  before  1904,  when  her  first  play  appeared,  was  largely 
the  translation  and  rewriting  of  early  Irish  legends  and  tales. 

Together  with  Yeats,  Edward  Martyn,  and  George  Moore 
she  founded  The  Irish  Literary  Theater  late  in  the  nineties, 
which  subsequently  became  the  Abbey  Theater.  Lady 
Gregory  is  one  of  the  outstanding  figures  in  the  modern  Irish 
dramatic  and  literary  renascence.  In  her  collections  of 
folklore  —  "Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne ",  "Gods  and  Fight- 
ing Men  ",  "The  Book  of  Saints  and  Wonders  ",  etc.,  —  in  her 
many  plays,  in  her  lectures  and  articles,  she  has  contributed 
more  than  any  one  else,  except  Yeats,  to  the  success  of  the 
"movement." 

Her  best  plays  (that  is,  her  comedies)  were  written  in  order 
to  furnish  relief  to  the  more  somber  pieces  which  at  one 
time  threatened  to  overbalance  the  repertory  of  the  Abbey 
Theater.  There  were  few  light  plays  available,  and  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  Lady  Gregory's  first  dramatic  idea  came  to 
her  not  as  a  comedy,  but  as  a  serious  play,  she  wrote  "  Spread- 
ing the  News."  Of  this  she  says:  "The  idea  of  this  play 
first  came  to  me  as  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  But  comedy  and  not 
tragedy  was  wanted  at  our  theater  to  put  beside  the  high 
poetic  work,  'The  King's  Threshold',  'The  Shadowy 
Waters',  'On  Baile's  Strand',  'The  Well  of  the  Saints', 
and  I  let  laughter  have  its  way  with  the  little  play." 

In  "Spreading  the  News"  Lady  Gregory  found  the  type  of 
play  she  could  best  do.  This  was  followed  by  "Hyacinth 
Halvey  ",  "The  Jackdaw  ",  "The  Rising  of  the  Moon  ",  and 


410  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


"The  Workhouse  Ward",  which  are  among  the  few  genuine 
comedies  of  modern  times. 

PLAYS 

♦Spreading  the  News  (1904)  *The  Workhouse  Ward 
Kincora  (1905)  (1908) 

The  White  Cockade  (1905)  The  Image  (1909) 

♦Hyacinth  Halvey  (1906)  *The  Traveling  Man  (1909) 

*The  Gaol  Gate  (1906)  *The  Full  Moon  (1910) 

The  Canavans  (1906)  *Coats  (1910) 

*The  Jackdaw  (1907)  The  Deliverer  (1911) 

*The   Rising   of   the   Moon  *McDonough's  Wife  (1912) 

(1907)  Grania  (1912) 

Devorgilla  (1907)  *The  Bogie  Men  (1912) 

The  Unicorn  from  the  Stars  *Damer's  Gold  (1912) 

(1907)  The  Golden  Apple  (1916) 

(In     collaboration     with  The  Dragon  (1920) 
W.  B.  Yeats) 

"Spreading  the  News",  "Hyacinth  Halvey",  "The  Gaol 
Gate",  "The  Jackdaw",  "The  Rising  of  the  Moon",  "The 
Workhouse  Ward  ",  and  " The  Traveling  Man"  are  published 
in  "Seven  Short  Plays  ",  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York; 
"Grania",  "Kincora",  "Dervorgilla",  "The  Canavans", 
"The  White  Cockade  ",  and  "The  Deliverer"  in  two  volumes 
of  "Folk-History  Plays",  by  Putnam;  "The  Full  Moon", 
"Coats",  "McDonough's  Wife",  "The  Bogie  Men",  and 
"Darner's  Gold"  in  "New  Comedies",  by  Putnam;  "The 
Golden  Apple"  and  "The  Dragon"  separately,  by  Putnam; 
and  "The  Image",  separately,  by  Maunsel  and  Company, 
Dublin. 

References:  Lady  Gregory,  "Our  Irish  Theater",  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York. 

Magazines:  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  ccxv,  p.  234,  London; 
Collier  s  Weekly,  vol.  xlviii,  p.  465,  New  York;  Contemporary 
Review,  vol.  cii,  p.  602,  London;  The  Independent,  vol.  lxxiv,  p. 
857,  New  York;   The  Living  Age,  vol.  cclxxxi,  p.  332,  Boston. 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS 


By  LADY  GREGORY 


"Spreading  the  News"  was  first  produced  at  Dublin  in 
1904. 

Characters 

Bartley  Fallon 

Mrs.  Fallon 

Jack  Smith 

Shawn  Early 

Tim  Casey 

James  Ryan 

Mrs.  Tarpey 

Mrs.  Tully 

A  Policeman  (Jo  Muldoon) 

A  Removable  Magistrate 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Lady  Gregory. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Reprinted  from  "Seven  Short  Plays  ",  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Messrs. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York. 

Permission  to  perform  this  play  must  be  secured  from  Samuel  French,  Publisher, 
28  West  38th  Street,  Now  York  City. 


SPREADING   THE   NEWS 

Scene:  The  Outskirts  of  a  Fair.     An  Apple  Stall.     Mrs. 
Tarpey  sitting  at  it.     Magistrate  and  Policeman  enter. 
magistrate.     So  that  is  the  Fair  Green.     Cattle  and  sheep 

and  mud.     No  system.     What  a  repulsive  sight! 
policeman.     That  is  so,  indeed. 
magistrate.     I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of  disorder  in 

this  place? 
policeman.     There  is. 
magistrate.     Common  assault? 
policeman.     It's  common  enough. 
magistrate.     Agrarian  crime,  no  doubt? 
policeman.     That  is  so. 
magistrate.     Boycotting?    Maiming  of  cattle?    Firing  into 

houses? 
policeman.     There  was  one  time,  and  there  might  be  again. 
magistrate.    That  is  bad.    Does  it  go  any  farther  than  that? 
policeman.     Far  enough,  indeed. 
magistrate.     Homicide,    then!     This    district    has    been 

shamefully  neglected!     I  will  change  all  that.     When  I 

was  in  the  Andaman  Islands,   my  system  never  failed. 

Yes,  yes,  I  will  change  all  that.     What  has  that  woman  on 

her  stall? 
policeman.     Apples  mostly  —  and  sweets. 
magistrate.     Just  see  if  there  are  any  unlicensed  goods  un- 
derneath—  spirits  or  the  like.     We  had  evasions  of  the 

salt  tax  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 
policeman  {sniffing  cautiously  and  upsetting  a  heap  of  apples). 

I  see  no  spirits  here  —  or  salt. 
magistrate  (to  Mrs.  Tarpey).     Do  you  know  this  town  well, 

my  good  woman? 


414  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

mrs.  tarpey  (holding  out  some  apples).     A  penny  the  half- 
dozen,  your  honour? 
policeman   (shouting).      The  gentleman  is  asking  do  you 

know  the  town!     He's  the  new  magistrate! 
mrs.  tarpey  (rising  and  ducking).     Do  I  know  the  town? 

I  do,  to  be  sure. 
magistrate  (shouting).    What  is  its  chief  business? 
mrs.  tarpey.     Business,  is  it?     What  business  would  the 

people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one  another's  business? 
magistrate.     I  mean  what  trade  have  they? 
mrs.   tarpey.     Not  a  trade.     No  trade  at  all  but  to  be 

talking. 
magistrate.     I  shall  learn  nothing  here. 

[James  Ryan  comes  in,  pipe  in  mouth.   Seeing  Magistrate  he 

retreats  quickly,  taking  pipe  from  mouth. 
magistrate.     The  smoke  from  that  man's  pipe  had  a  green- 
ish look;  he  may  be  growing  unlicensed  tobacco  at  home. 

I  wish  I  had  brought  my  telescope  to  this  district.    Come 

to  the  post-office,  I  will  telegraph  for  it.     I  found  it  very 

useful  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

{Magistrate  and  Policeman  go  out  left. 
mrs.  tarpey.    Bad  luck  to  Jo  Muldoon,  knocking  my  apples 

this  way  and  that  way.     (Begins  arranging  them)   Showing 

off  he  was  to  the  new  magistrate. 

[Enter  Bartley  Fallon  and  Mrs.  Fallon. 
bartley.     Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce  country 

to  be  living  in.     But  I'm  thinking  if  I  went  to  America 

it's  long  ago  the  day  I'd  be  dead! 
mrs.  fallon.     So  you  might,  indeed. 

[She  puts  her  basket  on  a  barrel  and  begins  putting  parcels 

in  it,  taking  them  from  under  her  cloak. 
bartley.     And  it's  a  great  expense  for  a  poor  man  to  be 

buried  in  America. 
mrs.  fallon.     Never  fear,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I'll  give  you 

a  good  burying  the  day  you'll  die. 
bartley.     Maybe  it's  yourself  will  be  buried  in  the  grave- 
yard of  Cloonmara  before  me,  Mary  Fallon,  and  I  myself 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  415 

that  will  be  dying  unbeknownst  some  night,  and  no  one 

a-near   me.     And   the   cat   itself   may   be   gone   straying 

through  the  country,  and  the  mice  squealing  over  the  quilt. 

mrs.   fallon.     Leave  off  talking  of  dying.     It  might  be 

twenty  years  you'll  be  living  yet. 
bartley  (wi  h  a  deep  sigh).     I'm  thinking  if  I'll  be  living  at 
the  end  o"  twenty  years,  it's  a  very  old  man  1 11  be  then! 
mrs.  tarpey  (turns  and  sees  them).     Good  morrow,  Bartley 
Fallon;  good  morrow,  Mrs.  Fallon.     Well,  Bartley,  you'll 
find  no  cause  for  complaining  to-day;  they  are  all  saying 
it  was  a  good  fair. 
bartley  (raising  his  voice).     It  was  not  a  good  fair,  Mrs. 
Tarpey.     It  was  a  scattered  sort  of  a  fair.     If  we  didn't 
expect  more,  we  got  less.     That's  the  way  with  me  always; 
whatever  I  have  to  sell  goes  down  and  whatever  I  have  to 
buy  goes  up.     If  there's  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to 
this  world,  it's  on  myself  it  pitches,  like  a  flock  of  crows  on 
seed  potatoes. 
mrs.  fallon.     Leave  off  talking  of  misfortunes  and  listen 
to  Jack  Smith  that  is  coming  the  way,  and  he  singing. 
[Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing: 
I  thought,  my  first  love, 

There'd  be  but  one  house  between  you  and  me, 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

Yourself  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee. 
Over  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 
Till  I  came  to  the  side 

Of  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man! 
[Jack  Smith  comes  in;  he  is  a  red-haired  man,  and  is  carrying 
a  hayfork. 
mrs.  tarpey.  That  should  be  a  good  song  if  I  had  my  hearing. 
mrs.    fallon    (shouting).      It's    "The    Red-haired    Man's 

Wife." 
mrs.  tarpey      I  know  it  well.     That's  the  song  that  has  a 
skin  on  it ! 
tShe  turns  her  back  to  them  and  goes  on  arranging  her  apples. 


416  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

mrs.  fallon.     Where's  herself,  Jack  Smith? 

jack  smith.  She  was  delayed  with  her  washing;  bleaching 
the  clothes  on  the  hedge  she  is,  and  she  daren't  leave  them, 
with  all  the  tinkers  that  do  be  passing  to  the  fair.  It 
isn't  to  the  fair  I  came  myself,  but  up  to  the  Five  Acre 
Meadow  I'm  going,  where  I  have  a  contract  for  the  hay. 
We'll  get  a  share  of  it  into  tramps  to-day. 
[He  lays  down  hayfork  and  lights  his  pipe. 

bartley.  You  will  not  get  it  into  tramps  to-day.  The  rain 
will  be  down  on  it  by  evening,  and  on  myself  too.  It's 
seldom  I  ever  started  on  a  journey  but  the  rain  would 
come  down  on  me  before  I'd  find  any  place  of  shelter. 

jack  smith.  If  it  didn't  itself,  Bartley,  it  is  my  belief  you 
would  carry  a  leaky  pail  on  your  head  in  place  of  a  hat, 
the  way  you'd  not  be  without  some  cause  of  complaining. 
[A  voice  heard  "Go  on,  now,  go  on  out  o'  that.   Go  on,  I  say." 

jack  smith.     Look  at  that  young  mare  of  Pat  Ryan's  that 
is  backing  into  Shaughnessy's  bullocks  with  the  dint  of 
the  crowd!     Don't  be  daunted,  Pat,  I'll  give  you  a  hand 
with  her. 
[He  goes  out,  leaving  his  hayfork. 

mrs.  fallon.  It's  time  for  ourselves  to  be  going  home.  I 
have  all  I  bought  put  in  the  basket.  Look  at  there,  Jack 
Smith's  hayfork  he  left  after  him!  He'll  be  wanting  it. 
(Calls)  Jack  Smith!  Jack  Smith! — He's  gone  through 
the  crowd  —  hurry  after  him,  Bartley,  he'll  be  wanting  it. 

bartley.     I'll  do  that.     This  is  no  safe  place  to  be  leaving 
it.     (He  takes  up  fork  awkivardly  and  upsets  the  baskets) 
Look  at  that  now!     If  there  is  any  basket  in  the  fair 
upset,  it  must  be  our  own  basket ! 
[He  goes  out  to  right. 

mrs.  fallon.     Get  out  of  that!     It  is  your  own  fault,  it  is. 
Talk  of  misfortunes  and  misfortunes  will  come.     Glory  be 
Look  at  my  new  egg-cups  rolling  in  every  part  —  and  my 
two  pound  of  sugar  with  the  paper  broke 

mrs.  tarpey  (turning  from  stall).  God  help  us.  Mrs.  Fallon, 
what  happened  your  basket? 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  417 

mrs.  fallon.  It's  himself  that  knocked  it  down,  bad  man- 
ners to  him.  (Putting  things  up)  My  grand  sugar  that's 
destroyed,  and  he'll  not  drink  his  tea  without  it.  I  had 
best  go  back  to  the  shop  for  more,  much  good  may  it  do 
him! 
[Enter  Tim  Casey. 

tim  casey.  Where  is  Bartley  Fallon,  Mrs.  Fallon?  I  want 
a  word  with  him  before  he'll  leave  the  fair.  I  was  afraid 
he  might  have  gone  home  by  this,  for  he's  a  temperate  man. 

mrs.  fallon.  I  wish  he  did  go  home!  It'd  be  best  for  me 
if  he  went  home  straight  from  the  fair  green,  or  if  he  never 
came  with  me  at  all!  Where  is  he,  is  it?  He's  gone  up 
the  road  (jerks  elbow)  following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork. 
[She  goes  out  to  left. 

tim  casey.  Following  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork!  Did 
ever  any  one  hear  the  like  of  that.  (Shouts)  Did  you 
hear  that  news,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

mrs.  tarpey.     I  heard  no  news  at  all. 

tim  casey.  Some  dispute  I  suppose  it  was  that  rose  be- 
tween Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon,  and  it  seems  Jack 
made  off,  and  Bartley  is  following  him  with  a  hayfork! 

mrs.  tarpey.  Is  he  now?  Well,  that  was  quick  work!  It's 
not  ten  minutes  since  the  two  of  them  were  here.  Bartley 
going  home  and  Jack  going  to  the  Five  Acre  Meadow;  and 
I  had  my  apples  to  settle  up,  that  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police 
had  scattered,  and  when  I  looked  round  again  Jack  Smith 
was  gone,  and  Bartley  Fallon  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Fallon's 
basket  upset,  and  all  in  it  strewed  upon  the  ground  — 
the  tea  here  —  the  two  pound  of  sugar  there  —  the  egg- 
cups  there  —  Look,  now,  what  a  great  hardship  the  deaf- 
ness puts  upon  me,  that  I  didn't  hear  the  commincement 
of  the  fight!  Wait  till  I  tell  James  Ryan  that  I  see  be- 
low, he  is  a  neighbour  of  Bartley's,  it  would  be  a  pity  if  he 
wouldn't  hear  the  news! 
[She  goes  out.    Enter  Shaivn  Early  and  Mrs.  Tully. 

tim  casey.  Listen,  Shawn  Early!  Listen,  Mrs.  Tully,  to 
the  news!     Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon  had  a  falling 


418  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

out,  and  Jack  knocked  Mrs.  Fallon's  basket  into  the  road, 

and  Bartley  made  an  attack  on  him  with  a  hayfork,  and 

away  with  Jack,  and  Bartley  after  him.     Look  at  the  sugar 

here  yet  on  the  road ! 
shawn  early.     Do  you  tell  me  so?     Well,  that's  a  queer 

thing,  and  Bartley  Fallon  so  quiet  a  man! 
MRS.  tully.     I  wouldn't  wonder  at  all.     I  would  never  think 

well  of  a  man  that  would  have  that  sort  of  a  mouldering 

look.    It's  likely  he  has  overtaken  Jack  by  this. 

[Enter  James  Ryan  and  Mrs.  Tarpey. 
james  ryan.     That  is  great  news  Mrs.  Tarpey  was  telling 

me!     I  suppose  that's  what  brought  the  police  and  the 

magistrate  up  this  way.     I  was  wondering  to  see  them  in 

it  a  while  ago. 
shawn  early.   The  police  after  them?   Bartley  Fallon  must 

have  injured  Jack  so.     They  wouldn't  meddle  in  a  fight 

that  was  only  for  show! 
mrs.   tully.     Why  wouldn't  he  injure  him?     There    was 

many  a  man  killed  with  no  more  of  a  weapon  than  a 

hayfork. 
james  ryan.     Wait  till  I  run  north  as  far  as  Kelly's  bar  to 

spread  the  news! 

[He  goes  out. 
tim  casey.     I'll  go  tell  Jack  Smith's  first  cousin  that  is 

standing  there  south  of  the  church  after  selling  his  lambs. 

[Goes  out. 
mrs.  tully.     I'll  go  telling  a  few  of  the  neighbours  I  see 

beyond  to  the  west. 

[Goes  out. 
shawn  early.     I'll  give  word  of  it  beyond  at  the  east  of  the 

green. 

[Is  going  out  when  Mrs.  Tarpey  seizes  liold  of  him. 
mrs.  tarpey      Stop  a  minute,  Shawn  Early,  and  tell  me  did 

you  see  red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary,  in  any  place? 
shawn  early.     I  did.     At  her  own  house  she  was,  drying 

clothes  on  the  hedge  as  I  passed. 
mrs.  tarpey.     What  did  you  say  she  was  doing.' 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  419 

shawn  early  (breaking  away).    Laying  out  a  sheet  on  the 
hedge. 
[He  goes. 

mrs.  tarpey.  Laying  out  a  sheet  for  the  dead!  The  Lord 
have  mercy  on  us!  Jack  Smith  dead,  and  his  wife  laying 
out  a  sheet  for  his  burying!  (Calls  out)  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  before,  Shawn  Early?  Isn't  the  deafness  the 
great  hardship?  Half  the  world  might  be  dead  without 
me  knowing  of  it  or  getting  word  of  it  at  all!  (She  sits 
down  and  rocks  herself)  O  my  poor  Jack  Smith!  To  be 
going  to  his  work  so  nice  and  so  hearty,  and  to  be  left 
stretched  on  the  ground  in  the  full  light  of  the  day! 
[Enter  Tim  Casey. 

tim  casey.     What  is  it,  Mrs.  Tarpey?  What  happened  since? 

mrs.  tarpey.     O  my  poor  Jack  Smith! 

tim  casey.     Did  Bartley  overtake  him? 

MRS.  tarpey.     0  the  poor  man ! 

tim  casey.     Is  it  killed  he  is? 

mrs.  tarpey.     Stretched  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow! 

tim  casey.     The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!     Is  that  a  fact? 

mrs.  tarpey.     Without  the  rites  of  the  Church  or  a  ha'porth ! 

tim  casey.     Who  was  telling  you? 

mrs.  tarpey.     And  the  wife  laying  out  a  sheet    for    his 
corpse.     (Sits  up  and  wipes  her  eyes)     I  suppose  they'll 
wake  him  the  same  as  another? 
[Enter  Mrs.  Tully,  Shawn  Early,  and  James  Ryan. 

mrs.  tully.     There  is  great  talk  about  this  work  in  every 
quarter  of  the  fair. 

mrs.  tarpey.     Ochone!  cold  and  dead.     And  myself  maybe 
the  last  he  was  speaking  to! 

james  ryan.     The  Lord  save  us!     Is  it  dead  he  is? 

tim  casey.     Dead  surely,  and  the  wife  getting  provision  for 
the  wake. 

shawn   early.     Well,   now,   hadn't   Bartley   Fallon  great 
venom  in  him? 

mrs.  tully.     You  may  be  sure  he  had  some  cause.     Why 
would  he  have  made  an  end  of  him  if  he  had  not?     (To 


420  SPREADING   THE   NEWS 

Mrs.  Tarpey,  raising  her  voice)  What  was  it  rose  the  dis- 
pute at  all,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

mrs.  tarpey.  Not  a  one  of  me  knows.  The  last  I  saw  of 
them,  Jack  Smith  was  standing  there,  and  Bartley  Fallon 
was  standing  there,  quiet  and  easy,  and  he  listening  to 
"The  Red-haired  Man's  Wife." 

mrs.  tully.  Do  you  hear  that,  Tim  Casey?  Do  you  hear 
that,  Shawn  Early  and  James  Ryan?  Bartley  Fallon  was 
here  this  morning  listening  to  red  Jack  Smith's  wife, 
Kitty  Keary  that  was!  Listening  to  her  and  whispering 
with  her !     It  was  she  started  the  fight  so ! 

shawn  early.  She  must  have  followed  him  from  her  own 
house.     It  is  likely  some  person  roused  him. 

tim  casey.  I  never  knew,  before,  Bartley  Fallon  was  great 
with  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

mrs.  tully.  How  would  you  know  it?  Sure  it's  not 
in  the  streets  they  would  be  calling  it.  If  Mrs.  Fallon 
didn't  know  of  it,  and  if  I  that  have  the  next  house  to 
them  didn't  know  of  it,  and  if  Jack  Smith  himself  didn't 
know  of  it,  it  is  not  likely  you  would  know  of  it,  Tim 
Casey. 

shawn  early.  Let  Bartley  Fallon  take  charge  of  her  from 
this  out  so,  and  let  him  provide  for  her.  It  is  little  pity 
she  will  get  from  any  person  in  this  parish. 

tim  casey.  How  can  he  take  charge  of  her?  Sure  he  has  a 
wife  of  his  own.  Sure  you  don't  think  he'd  turn  souper  and 
marry  her  in  a  Protestant  church? 

james  ryan.  It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  marry  her  if  he 
brought  her  to  America. 

shawn  early.  With  or  without  Kitty  Keary,  believe  me  it 
is  for  America  he's  making  at  this  minute.  I  saw  the  new 
magistrate  and  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  police  going  into  the 
post-office  as  I  came  up  —  there  was  hurry  on  them  —  you 
may  be  sure  it  was  to  telegraph  they  went,  the  way  he'll 
be  stopped  in  the  docks  at  Queenstown! 

mrs.  tully.  It's  likely  Kitty  Keary  is  gone  with  him,  and 
not  minding  a  sheet  or  a  wake  at  all.     The  poor  man,  to 


SPREADING  THE   NEWS  421 

be  deserted  by  his  own  wife,  and  the  breath  hardly  gone 
out  yet  from  his  body  that  is  lying  bloody  in  the  field! 
[Enter  Mrs.  Fallon. 

mrs.  fallon.  What  is  it  the  whole  of  the  town  is  talking 
about?  And  what  is  it  you  yourselves  are  talking  about? 
Is  it  about  my  man  Bartley  Fallon  you  are  talking?  Is  it 
lies  about  him  you  are  telling,  saying  that  he  went  killing 
Jack  Smith?  My  grief  that  ever  he  came  into  this  place 
at  all! 

james  ryan.  Be  easy  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  Sure  there  is  no 
one  at  all  in  the  whole  fair  but  is  sorry  for  you ! 

mrs.  fallon.  Sorry  for  me,  is  it?  WThy  would  anyone  be 
sorry  for  me?  Let  you  be  sorry  for  yourselves,  and  that 
there  may  be  shame  on  you  for  ever  and  at  the  day  of 
judgment,  for  the  words  you  are  saying  and  the  lies  you 
are  telling  to  take  away  the  character  of  my  poor  man,  and 
to  take  the  good  name  off  of  him,  and  to  drive  him  to  de- 
struction !     That  is  what  you  are  doing ! 

shawn  early.  Take  comfort  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  The 
police  are  not  so  smart  as  they  think.  Sure  he  might  give 
them  the  slip  yet,  the  same  as  Lynchehaun. 

mrs.  tully.  If  they  do  get  him,  and  if  they  do  put  a  rope 
around  his  neck,  there  is  no  one  can  say  he  does  not  deserve 
it! 

mrs.  fallon.  Is  that  what  you  are  saying,  Bridget  Tully, 
and  is  that  what  you  think?  I  tell  you  it's  too  much  talk 
you  have,  making  yourself  out  to  be  such  a  great  one,  and 
to  be  running  down  every  respectable  person!  A  rope,  is 
it?  It  isn't  much  of  a  rope  was  needed  to  tie  up  your  own 
furniture  the  day  you  came  into  Martin  Tully's  house, 
and  you  never  bringing  as  much  as  a  blanket,  or  a  penny, 
or  a  suit  of  clothes  with  you,  and  I  myself  bringing  seventy 
pounds  and  two  feather  beds.  And  now  you  are  stiffer 
than  a  woman  would  have  a  hundred  pounds!  It  is  too 
much  talk  the  whole  of  you  have.  A  rope,  is  it?  I  tell 
you  the  whole  of  this  town  is  full  of  liars  and  schemers 
that  would   hang  you   up  for  half  a  glass  of  whiskey. 


422  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 


{Turning  to  go)  People  they  are  you  wouldn't  believe  as 
much  as  daylight  from  without  you'd  get  up  to  have  a  look 
at  it  yourself.  Killing  Jack  Smith  indeed!  Where  are 
you  at  all,  Bartley,  till  I  bring  you  out  of  this?  My  nice, 
quiet  little  man!  My  decent  comrade!  He  that  is  as 
kind  and  as  harmless  as  an  innocent  beast  of  the  field! 
He'll  be  doing  no  harm  at  all  if  he'll  shed  the  blood  of 
some  of  you  after  this  day's  work!  That  much  would  be 
no  harm  at  all.  (Calls  out)  Bartley!  Bartley  Fallon! 
WTiere  are  you?  (Going  out)  Did  anyone  see  Bartley 
Fallon? 
[All  turn  to  look  after  her. 

james  ryan.     It  is  hard  for  her  to  believe  any  such  a  thing, 
God  help  her! 
[Enter  Bartley  Fallon  from  right,  carrying  hayfork. 

bartley.  It  is  what  I  often  said  to  myself,  if  there  is  ever 
any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world,  it  is  on  myself  it  is 
sure  to  come !  (All  turn  round  and  face  him)  To  be  going 
about  with  this  fork,  and  to  find  no  one  to  take  it,  and  no 
place  to  leave  it  down,  and  I  wanting  to  be  gone  out  of 
this.  —Is  that  you,  Shawn  Early?  (Holds  out  fork)  It's 
well  I  met  you.  You  have  no  call  to  be  leaving  the  fair 
for  a  while  the  way  I  have,  and  how  can  I  go  till  I'm  rid 
of  this  fork?  Will  you  take  it  and  keep  it  until  such  time 
as  Jack  Smith 

shawn  early  (backing).  I  will  not  take  it,  Bartley  Fallon, 
I'm  very  thankful  to  you ! 

bartley  (turning  to  apple  stall).  Look  at  it  now,  Mrs.  Tar- 
pey,  it  was  here  I  got  it;  let  me  thrust  it  in  under  the  stall. 
It  will  lie  there  safe  enough,  and  no  one  will  take  notice 
of  it  until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith • 

mrs.  tarpey.     Take  your  fork  out  of  that!     Is  it  to  put 
trouble  on  me  and  to  destroy  me  you  want?  putting  it 
there  for  the  police  to  be  rooting  it  out  maybe. 
[Thrusts  him  back. 

bartley.  That  is  a  very  unneighbourly  thing  for  you  to  do, 
Mrs.  Tarpey.     Hadn't  I  enough  care  on  me  with  that  fork 


SPREADING  THE   NEWS  423 

before  this,  running  up  and  down  with  it  like  the  swinging 

of  a  clock,  and  afeared  to  lay  it  down  in  any  place  I  wish 

I  never  touched  it  or  meddled  with  it  at  all ! 
james  ryan.     It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  you  ever  did. 
bartley.     Will  you  yourself  take  it,  James  Ryan?     You 

were  always  a  neighbourly  man. 
james  ryan  (backing).     There  is  many  a  thing  I  would  do 

for  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  won't  do  that ! 
shawn  early.     I  tell  you  there  is  no  man  will  give  you  any 

help  or  any  encouragement  for  this  day's  work.     If  it 

was  something  agrarian  now 

bartley.     If  no  one  at  all  will  take  it,  maybe  it's  best  to 

give  it  up  to  the  police. 
tim  casey.     There'd  be  a  welcome  for  it  with  them,  surely ! 

[Laughter. 
mrs.  tully.     And  it  is  to  the  police  Kitty  Keary  herself  will 

be  brought. 
MRS.  tarpey  (^rocking  to  and  fro).     I  wonder  now  who  will 

take  the  expense  of  the  wake  for  poor  Jack  Smith? 
bartley.     The  wake  for  Jack  Smith! 
tim  casey.     Why  wouldn't  he  get  a  wake  as  well  as  another? 

Would  you  begrudge  him  that  much? 
bartley.     Red  Jack  Smith  dead!    Who  was  telling  you? 
shawn  early.     The  whole  town  knows  of  it  by  this. 
bartley.     Do  they  say  what  way  did  he  die? 
james  ryan.     You  don't    know  that  yourself,   I    suppose, 

Bartley  Fallon?     You  don't  know  he  was  followed  and 

that  he  was  laid  dead  with  the  stab  of  a  hayfork? 
bartley.     The  stab  of  a  hayfork! 
shawn  early.     You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  that  the  body 

was  found  in  the  Five  Acre  Meadow? 
bartley.     The  Five  Acre  Meadow! 
tim  casey.     It  is  likely  you  don't  know  that  the  police  are 

after  the  man  that  did  it? 
bartley.     The  man  that  did  it! 
mrs.  tully.     You  don't  know,  maybe,  that  he  was  made 

away  with  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  his  wife? 


424  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

bartley.     Kitty  Keary,  his  wife! 

[Sits  down  bewildered. 
mrs.  tully.  And  what  have  you  to  say  now,  Bartley  Fallon  ? 
bartley  (crossing  himself).     I  to  bring  that  fork  here,  and 

to  find  that  news  before  me!     It  is  much  if  I  can  ever  stir 

from  this  place  at  all,  or  reach  as  far  as  the  road ! 
tim  casey.     Look,  boys,   at  the  new  magistrate,   and  Jo 

Muldoon  along  with  him !     It's  best  for  us  to  quit  this. 
shawn  early.     That  is  so.     It  is  best  not  to  be  mixed  in 

this  business  at  all. 
james  ryan.     Bad  as  he  is,  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  an  informer 

against  any  man. 

[All  hurry  away  except  Mrs.  Tarpey,  who  remains  behind 

her  stall.    Enter  magistrate  and  policeman. 
magistrate.     I  knew  the  district  was  in  a  bad  state,  but  I 

did  not  expect  to  be  confronted  with  a  murder  at  the  first 

fair  I  came  to. 
policeman.     I  am  sure  you  did  not,  indeed. 
magistrate.     It  was  well  I  had  not  gone  home.     I  caught  a 

few  words  here  and  there  that  roused  my  suspicions. 
policeman.     So  they  would,  too. 
magistrate.     You  heard  the  same  story  from  everyone  you 

asked? 
policeman.     The  same  story  —  or  if  it  was  not  altogether  the 

same,  anyway  it  was  no  less  than  the  first  story. 
magistrate.     What  is  that  man  doing?     He  is  sitting  alone 

with  a  hayfork.     He  has  a  guilty  look.     The  murder  was 

done  with  a  hayfork! 
policeman  {in  a  whisper).     That's  the  very  man  they  say 

did  the  act;  Bartley  Fallon  himself! 
magistrate.     He  must  have  found  escape  difficult  —  he  is 

trying  to  brazen  it  out.     A  convict  in  the  Andaman  Islands 

tried  the  same  game,  but  he  could  not  escape  my  system ! 

Stand  aside —     Don't  go  far  —  have  the  handcuffs  ready. 

(He  walks  up  to  Bartley,  folds  his  arms,  and  stands  before 

him)     Here,  my  man,  do  you  know  anything  of  John 

Smith? 


SPREADING  THE   NEWS  425 

bartley.     Of  John  Smith !     Who  is  he,  now? 

policeman.     Jack  Smith,  sir  —  Red  Jack  Smith! 

magistrate  (coming  a  step  nearer  and  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder).     Where  is  Jack  Smith? 

bartley  (with  a  deep  sigh,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly). 
Where  is  he,  indeed? 

magistrate.     What  have  you  to  tell? 

bartley.  It  is  where  he  was  this  morning,  standing  in  this 
spot,  singing  his  share  of  songs  —  no,  but  lighting  his  pipe 
—  scraping  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe 

magistrate.     I  ask  you,  for  the  third  time,  where  is  he? 

bartley.  I  would  like  to  say  that  it  is  a  great  mystery, 
and  it  is  hard  to  say  of  any  man,  did  he  earn  hatred  or  love. 

magistrate.     Tell  me  all  you  know. 

bartley.  All  that  I  know —  Well,  there  are  the  three 
estates;  there  is  Limbo,  and  there  is  Purgatory,  and  there 
is 

magistrate.  Nonsense!  This  is  trifling!  Get  to  the 
point. 

bartley.  Maybe  you  don't  hold  with  the  clergy  so?  That 
is  the  teaching  of  the  clergy.  Maybe  you  hold  with  the 
old  people.  It  is  what  they  do  be  saying,  that  the  shadow 
goes  wandering,  and  the  soul  is  tired,  and  the  body  is 
taking  a  rest —  The  shadow!  (Starts  up)  I  was  nearly 
sure  I  saw  Jack  Smith  not  ten  minutes  ago  at  the  corner 
of  the  forge,  and  I  lost  him  again  —  Was  it  his  ghost  I 
saw,  do  you  think? 

magistrate  (to  policeman).  Conscience-struck!  He  will  con- 
fess all  now! 

bartley.  His  ghost  to  come  before  me!  It  is  likely  it  was 
on  account  of  the  fork!  I  to  have  it  and  he  to  have  no 
way  to  defend  himself  the  time  he  met  with  his  death ! 

magistrate  (to  policeman).  I  must  note  down  his  words. 
(Takes  out  notebook.  To  Bartley)  I  warn  you  that  your 
words  are  being  noted. 

bartley.  If  I  had  ha'  run  faster  in  the  beginning,  this 
terror  would  not  be  on  me  at  the  latter  end!     Maybe  he 


426  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

will  cast  it  up  against  me  at  the  day  of  judgment  —     I 
wouldn't  wonder  at  all  at  that. 

magistrate  (writing).     At  the  day  of  judgment 

bartley.  It  was  soon  for  his  ghost  to  appear  to  me  —  is 
it  coming  after  me  always  by  day  it  will  be,  and  stripping 
the  clothes  off  in  the  night  time?  —  I  wouldn't  wonder 
at  all  at  that,  being  as  I  am  an  unfortunate  man ! 

magistrate  (sternly).  Tell  me  this  truly.  What  was  the 
motive  of  this  crime? 

bartley.     The  motive,  is  it? 

magistrate.     Yes;  the  motive;  the  cause. 

bartley.     I'd  sooner  not  say  that. 

magistrate.    You  had  better  tell  me  truly.    Was  it  money? 

bartley.  Not  at  all !  What  did  poor  Jack  Smith  ever  have 
in  his  pockets  unless  it  might  be  his  hands  that  would  be 
in  them? 

magistrate.     Any  dispute  about  land? 

bartley  (indignantly) .  Not  at  all !  He  never  was  a  grabber 
or  grabbed  from  anyone! 

magistrate.  You  will  find  it  better  for  you  if  you  tell  me 
at  once. 

bartley.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  for  the  whole  world  wish 
to  say  what  it  was  —  it  is  a  thing  I  would  not  like  to  be 
talking  about. 

magistrate.  There  is  no  use  in  hiding  it.  It  will  be  dis- 
covered in  the  end. 

bartley.  Well,  I  suppose  it  will,  seeing  that  mostly  every- 
body knows  it  before.  Whisper  here  now.  I  will  tell  no 
lie;  where  would  be  the  use?  (Puts  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and  Magistrate  stoops)  Don't  be  putting  the  blame  on 
the  parish,  for  such  a  thing  was  never  done  in  the  parish 
before  —  it  was  done  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  Jack 
Smith's  wife. 

magistrate  (to  policeman).     Put  on  the  handcuff s.  We  have 
been  saved  some  trouble.     I  knew  he  would  confess  if 
taken  in  the  right  way. 
[Policeman  puts  on  handcuffs. 


SPREADING   THE   NEWS  427 


bartley.  Handcuffs  now!  Glory  be.  I  always  said,  if 
there  was  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  place  it  was 
on  myself  it  would  fall.  I  to  be  in  handcuffs!  There's 
no  wonder  at  all  in  that. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Fallon,  followed  by  the  rest.      She  is  looking 
back  at  them  as  she  speaks. 

MRS.  fallon.  Telling  lies  the  whole  of  the  people  of  this 
town  are;  telling  lies,  telling  lies  as  fast  as  a  dog  will  trot! 
Speaking  against  my  poor  respectable  man!  Saying  he 
made  an  end  of  Jack  Smith !  My  decent  comrade !  There 
is  no  better  man  and  no  kinder  man  in  the  whole  of  the 
five  parishes!  It's  little  annoyance  he  ever  gave  to  any- 
one! (Turns  and  sees  him)  What  in  the  earthly  world 
do  I  see  before  me?  Bartley  Fallon  in  charge  of  the  police ! 
Handcuffs  on  him!  O  Bartley,  what  did  you  do  at  all 
at  all? 

bartley.  O  Mary,  there  has  a  great  misfortune  come  upon 
me!  It  is  what  I  always  said,  that  if  there  is  ever  any 
misfortune 

MRS.  fallon.     Wrhat  did  he  do  at  all,  or  is  it  bewitched  I  am? 

magistrate.  This  man  has  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
murder. 

mrs.  fallon.  Whose  charge  is  that?  Don't  believe  them! 
They  are  all  liars  in  this  place !     Give  me  back  my  man ! 

magistrate.  It  is  natural  you  should  take  his  part,  but  you 
have  no  cause  of  complaint  against  your  neighbours.  He 
has  been  arrested  for  the  murder  of  John  Smith,  on  his  own 
confession. 

mrs.  fallon.  The  saints  of  heaven  protect  us!  And  what 
did  he  want  killing  Jack  Smith? 

magistrate.  It  is  best  you  should  know  all.  He  did  it  on 
account  of  a  love  affair  with  the  murdered  man's  wife. 

mrs.  fallon  (sitting  down).  With  Jack  Smith's  wife! 
With  Kitty  Keary! Ochone,  the  traitor! 

the  crowd.     A  great  shame,  indeed.  He  is  a  traitor,  indeed. 

mrs.  tully.    To  America  he  was  bringing  her,  Mrs.  Fallon. 

bartley.     What  are  you  saying,  Mary?     I  tell  you 


428  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

Mrs.  fallon.  Don't  say  a  word!  I  won't  listen  to  any 
word  you'll  say!  (Stops  her  ears)  O,  isn't  he  the  treach- 
erous villain?     Ohone  go  deo! 

bartley.     Be  quiet  till  I  speak!    Listen  to  what  I  say! 

MRS.  fallon.  Sitting  beside  me  on  the  ass  car  coming  to 
the  town,  so  quiet  and  so  respectable,  and  treachery  like 
that  in  his  heart! 

bartley.  Is  it  your  wits  you  have  lost  or  is  it  I  myself  that 
have  lost  my  wits? 

mrs.  fallon.  And  it's  hard  I  earned  you  slaving,  slaving  — 
and  you  grumbling,  and  sighing,  and  coughing,  and  dis- 
contented, and  the  priest  wore  out  anointing  you,  with 
all  the  times  you  threatened  to  die! 

bartley.     Let  you  be  quiet  till  I  tell  you ! 

mrs.  fallon.  You  to  bring  such  a  disgrace  into  the  parish ! 
A  thing  that  was  never  heard  of  before! 

bartley.   Will  you  shut  your  mouth  and  hear  me  speaking? 

mrs.  fallon.  And  if  it  was  for  any  sort  of  a  fine  handsome 
woman,  but  for  a  little  fistful  of  a  woman  like  Kitty  Keary, 
that's  not  four  feet  high  hardly,  and  not  three  teeth  in  her 
head  unless  she  got  new  ones!  May  God  reward  you, 
Bartley  Fallon,  for  the  black  treachery  in  your  heart  and 
the  wickedness  in  your  mind,  and  the  red  blood  of  poor 
Jack  Smith  that  is  wet  upon  your  hand ! 
[Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing 

The  Sea  shall  be  dry, 

The  earth  under  mourning  and  ban! 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man ! 

bartley.  It's  Jack  Smith's  voice  —  I  never  knew  a  ghost 
to  sing  before — .  It  is  after  myself  and  the  fork  he  is 
coming!  (Goes  back.  Enter  Jack  Smith)  Let  one  of 
you  give  him  the  fork  and  I  will  be  clear  of  him  now  and 
for  eternity! 

mrs.  tarpey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  Red  Jack  Smith ! 
The  man  that  was  going  to  be  waked! 


SPREADING   THE   NEWS  429 

james  ryan.     Is  it  back  from  the  grave  you  are  come? 

shawn  early.     Is  it  alive  you  are,  or  is  it  dead  you  are? 

tim  casey.     Is  it  yourself  at  all  that's  in  it? 

mrs.  tully.     Is  it  letting  on  you  were  to  be  dead? 

MRS.   fallon.     Dead  or  alive,  let  you  stop  Kitty  Keary, 

your   wife,   from   bringing   my    man    away   with   her   to 

America ! 
jack  smith.     It  is  what  I  think,  the  wits  are  gone  astray  on 

the  whole  of  you.     What  would  my  wife  want  bringing 

Bartley  Fallon  to  America? 
mrs.  fallon.     To  leave  yourself,  and  to  get  quit  of  you  she 

wants,  Jack  Smith,  and  to  bring  him  away  from  myself. 

That's  what  the  two  of  them  had  settled  together. 
jack  smith.     I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  says  that! 

Who  is  it  says  it?     (To  Tim  Casey)     Was  it  you  said  it? 

(To  Shawn  Early)     Was  it  you? 
all  together  (backing  and  shaking  their  heads).     It  wasn't 

I  said  it! 
jack  smith.     Tell  me  the  name  of  any  man  that  said  it ! 
all    together    (pointing   to   Bartley).       It   was    him   that 

said  it! 
jack  smith.     Let  me  at  him  till  I  break  his  head ! 

[Bartley  backs  in  terror.     Neighbours  hold  Jack  Smith  back. 
jack  smith  (trying  to  free  himself).     Let  me  at  him!     Isn't 

he  the  pleasant  sort  of  a  scarecrow  for  any  woman  to  be 

crossing  the  ocean  with !     It's  back  from  the  docks  of  New 

York  he'd  be  turned  (trying  to  rush  at  him  again),  with  a 

lie  in  his  mouth  and  treachery  in  his  heart,  and  another 

man's  wife  by  his  side,  and  he  passing  her  off  as  his  own! 

Let  me  at  him,  can't  you. 

[Makes  another  rush,  but  is  held  back. 
magistrate  (pointing  to  Jack  Smith).     Policeman,  put  the 

handcuffs  on  this  man.     I  see  it  all  now.     A  case  of  false 

impersonation,  a  conspiracy  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice. 

There  was  a  case  in  the  Andaman  Islands,  a  murderer  of 

the  Mopsa  tribe,  a  religious  enthusiast 

policeman.     So  he  might  be,  too. 


430  SPREADING   THE   NEWS 

magistrate.     We  must  take  both  these  men  to  the  scene 

of  the  murder.     We  must  confront  them  with  the  body  of 

the  real  Jack  Smith. 
jack  smith.     I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  will  find 

my  dead  body! 
magistrate.     I'll  call  more  help  from  the  barracks. 

[Blows  Policeman  s  whistle. 
bartley.     It  is  what  I  am  thinking,  if  myself  and  Jack 

Smith  are  put  together  in  the  one  cell  for  the  night,  the 

handcuffs  will  be  taken  off  him,  and  his  hands  will  be  free, 

and  murder  will  be  done  that  time  surely ! 
magistrate.     Come  on! 

[They  turn  to  the  right. 


THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 

St.  John  G.  Ervine  was  born  at  Belfast,  Ireland,  in  1883. 
After  completing  his  scholastic  education,  he  entered  the 
insurance  business,  which  he  soon  left  for  literary  work. 
Early  in  his  career  he  became  dramatic  critic  on  the  Daily 
Citizen.  During  a  long  residence  in  London  Mr.  Ervine  wrote 
plays,  novels,  stories,  and  did  miscellaneous  newspaper 
work.  During  the  past  year  he  has  been  dramatic  critic  on 
The  London  Observer.  During  the  war,  he  managed  the 
Abbey  Theater  for  a  short  period,  and  served  in  the  army. 

Mr.  Ervine's  earlier  plays  were  produced  at  the  Abbey 
Theater,  where  he  was  one  of  the  "younger  group"  of 
"Realistic"  dramatists,  who  depicted  the  everyday  existence 
of  the  middle  classes  in  the  cities  and  small  towns. 

"The  Magnanimous  Lover"  is  an  early  play,  but  it  reveals 
the  dramatist's  power,  —  which  was  later  to  develop  to 
maturity  in  "Jane  Clegg"  and  "John  Ferguson."  Ervine 
excels  in  the  depiction  of  human  character  under  extraor- 
dinary emotional  pressure:  the  situation  in  "The  Mag- 
nanimous Lover"  reveals  character  at  white  heat. 

PLAYS 

Mixed  Marriage  (1911)  *The  Critics  (1913) 

Jane  Clegg  (1912)  John  Ferguson  (1916) 

*The    Magnanimous    Lover  The  Wonderful  Visit  (1921) 

(1913)  (In     collaboration     with 

*The  Orangeman  (1913)  H.  G.  Wells) 


432  THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

"Mixed  Marriage",  "The  Magnanimous  Lover",  "The 
Orangeman",  and  "The  Critics"  are  published  in  a  volume 
as  "Four  Irish  Plays",  Macmillan  Company,  New  York; 
"Jane  Clegg"  separately  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New 
York;  and  "John  Ferguson"  separately  by  Macmillan 
Company. 

References.  Periodicals:  Everybody's,  vol.  xxviii,  p.  678, 
New  York;  New  York  Sun,  August  11,  1918;  New  York  Even- 
ing Post,  February  7,  1920,  and  May  22,  1920;  New  York 
Times,  March  21,  1920;  New  Republic,  March  10,  1920, 
New  York. 


THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 


By  ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 


"The  Magnanimous  Lover"  was  first  performed  at  Dub- 
lin in  1912. 

Characters 

William  Cather,  A  Shoemaker 
Jane  Cather,  His  Wife 
Maggie  Cather,  His  Daughter 
Samuel  Hinde,  A  Grocer 
Henry  Hinde,  His  Son 


Copyright,  1912,  bt  St.  John  G.  Ebvine. 

"The  Magnanimous  Lover"  is  reprinted,  with  the  permission  of  the  publisher, 
The  Maemillan  Company,  New  York,  from  "Four  Irish  Plays."  This  play  is  fully 
protected,  and  permission  for  performance  must  be  secured  from  the  publisher. 


THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  kitchen  and  living  room  of  William 
Cather's  cottage  in  the  North-Irish  village  of  Donaghreagh.  The 
room  is  large,  and  well  lighted  by  the  two  windows,  through  which 
the  Irish  Sea  can  be  seen.  The  windows  are  tightly  shut,  and 
probably  have  never  once  been  open  since  they  were  inserted  in 
their  frames;  but  this  does  not  affect  the  ventilation  of  the  room  to 
any  great  extent,  for  the  cottage  door,  which  is  in  two  sections, 
is  always  open  cither  to  its  full  extent  or,  as  now,  half  open. 

Immediately  facing  the  street  door,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  is  a  door  leading  to  the  best  bedroom.  The  wall  in  which 
this  bedroom  door  is  placed  terminates  in  another  door  which 
leads  to  the  scullery  and  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
The  space  in  this  wall  between  the  two  doors  is  occupied  by  a 
large  dresser,  piled  with  crockery  of  many  hues  and  shapes. 

A  large,  round  pot  is  suspended  over  the  open  fire  which 
burns  in  the  wall  stretching  between  the  front  and  the  rear  of 
the  house,  furthest  from  the  street  door.  Over  the  mantel-shelf, 
on  which  are  articles  of  cheap  china,  a  clock  and  a  tea-caddy, 
hangs  a  large  oleograph  showing  King  William  the  Third  in 
the  act  of  crossing  the  Boyne.  On  either  side  of  this  picture  are 
two  oblong  mottoes  printed  in  floral  letters  on  a  black  back- 
ground, the  legends  reading:  "  Thou  God  Seest  Me ",  and, 
"What  is  Home  Without  A  Mother." 

Between  the  two  windows  is  a  large,  unstained  deal  table 
above  which  hangs  another  oleograph,  revealing  the  Secret  of 
England's  Greatness,  and  a  further  motto,  "  There's  No  Place 
like  Home." 

There  are  other  mottoes  scattered  over  the  walls;  some  shield- 
shaped,  some  oblong,  some  circular,  of  smaller  size  than  those 
already  mentioned;  all  bearing  texts  from  the  Bible: — "What 
Shall  It  Profit  a  Man  if  He  Gain  the  Whole  World,  and  Lose 


436  THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

His  Own  Soul."     "Jesus  Wept."     "Blessed  are  the  Humble 
and  Meek."     "God  Is  Here." 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  a  late  summer  day. 

Samuel  Hinde  puts  his  head  over  the  lower  half-door,  which 
is  barred.     There  is  no  one  in  the  kitchen. 
samuel  hinde.     Are  you  in,  Mrs.  Cather? 
MRS.  cather  (speaking  from  the  scullery).     Aye,  indeed  I  am. 

(She  comes  into  the  kitchen)     Och,  is  that  yourself,  Sam! 

Sure,  come  on  in. 
samuel  hinde  (unbarring  the  door,  and  entering).     I've  some- 
thing very  important  to  say  to  you,  Mrs.  Cather.     Very 

important. 
mrs.  cather.     Have  you,  Sam? 
samuel  hinde.     Aye.     Where's  William? 
mrs.  cather.     Aw,  he's  down  the  garden.     Will  I  call  him? 
samuel  hinde.     Aye,  I  wish  you  would. 
mrs.   cather   (calling  at  the  scullery  door).     Hi,  William, 

come  on  in  a  minute. 
William  cather  (answering  from  the  garden).     What  do  you 

want? 
mrs.  cather.     Come  on  in  a  minute.     I  want  you. 
william  cather.     All  right,  I'm  coming. 
samuel  hinde.     Where's  Maggie  the  day? 
mrs.  cather.     Aw,  she's  over  to  Killisle;  but  sure  she'll  be 

back  soon.     Were  you  wanting  her? 
samuel  hinde.   Not  just  yet  a  wee  while.   It'll  do  later. 

[Enter  William  Cather,  a  lean,  kindly  man  with  a  leathern 

apron  bound  round  his  loins. 
william  cather.     What  do  you  want?     (Seeing  Samuel 

Hinde)     How  are  you,  Sam? 
samuel  hinde.     Sure,  I'm  rightly.     I  want  to  talk  to  you 

a  minute.     It's  about  Maggie. 
mrs.  cather.     About  Maggie? 
samuel  hinde.     Aye,   Henry's  come  back.     By  the  two 

o'clock  train. 
mrs.  cather.     Come  back!     (Her  voice  hardens)     Has  he 

come  back  to  make  Maggie  a  respectable  woman? 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS   LOVER  437 

samuel  hinde.     Aye,  he  has. 

mrs.  cather.     Oh,  thank  God! 

william  cather.     Sit  down,  will  you,  Sam? 

samuel  hinde.     I  will  in  a  minute,  but  I'd  better  call  Henry 

in  first.     He's  just  waiting  round  the  corner. 
william  cather.     Aye,  bring  him  in,  will  you. 

[Samuel  Hinde  goes  to  the  door,  and  beckons  to  his  son,  Henry 

Hinde,  who  enters. 
samuel  hinde.     Here's  Henry,  Mrs.  Cather. 
mrs.  gather.     How  are  you,  Henry? 
henry  hinde.    I'm  bravely,  thank  you.    How  is  yourself? 
mrs.  cather.    I'm  brave  and  well,  thank  you.    Sit  down, 

will  you. 
william  cather.     I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Henry. 
henry  hinde.     Thank  you,  Mr.  Cather. 
william  cather.     Your  father  was  saying  something  about 

you  and  Maggie,  Henry !    .    .    .    . 
samuel  hinde.     Aye,  I  was  saying !    .... 
william  cather.     Maybe,  it  would  be  better  if  Henry  was 

to  speak  for  himself,  Sam. 
samuel  hinde.     Aye,  maybe  it  would. 
henry  hinde.     Mr.  Cather,  I  did  you  a  great  wrong  ten 

years  ago. 
william  cather.     You  did,  Henry. 
henry  hinde.     And  sorry  I  am  for  it. 
william  cather.     You  could  have  been  sorry  sooner  with 

advantage. 
henry  hinde.     I  was  headstrong  and  wayward,  Mr.  Cather. 

I  was  in  the  devil's  grip;  but  a  change  has  come  over  me. 

The  old  life  has  dropped  away  from  me,  and  I've  been 

washed  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb. 
mrs.  cather.     Are  you  saved,  Henry? 
henry   hinde.     Yes,   thank   God,    I've   been  saved,  Mrs. 

Cather.     I   was  a   wilful,   hell-deserving  sinner  when   I 

lived  here.     I  wanted  my  own  way  in  everything,  and  I 

didn't  care  about  nobody  else.     The  devil  was  in  me. 

When  I  went  to  Liverpool,  after  the  child  was  born,  I  led 


438  THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

a  wayward  life;  but  God  was  watching  over  me,  and  He 
saved  me  at  last.  I've  got  on,  too,  beyond  my  deserts. 
The  Almighty's  been  very  gracious  to  me.  I've  got  a  great 
deal  to  be  thankful  for. 

William  cather.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  Henry.  Maggie!  .  .  .  . 

henry  hinde.  It's  about  Maggie  I've  come  back.  Yester- 
day morning  as  I  was  contemplating  God's  goodness  to 
me,  I  was  wondering  what  I  could  do  to  show  my  gratitude 
to  Him.  I  owe  Him  a  great  debt,  and  I  want  to  pay  Him 
back  something.  And  I  heard  a  voice  within  me,  saying, 
Henry  Hinde,  you  once  did  a  woman  a  wrong.  You  left 
her  with  a  bastard  child!   .... 

mrs.  cather.     Aw,  don't  say  the  word,  Henry! 

henry  hinde.  Isn't  it  true,  Mrs.  Cather?  Didn't  I  leave 
Maggie  with  a  child  that  I  was  the  father  of?  I  was 
headstrong  in  my  sin,  and  I  wouldn't  marry  her.  My  sin 
was  deep,  Mrs.  Cather,  and  you  can't  make  little  of  it. 
And  when  I  heard  the  voice  of  God  telling  me  to  go  back 
to  the  woman  I  had  ruined  and  make  her  respectable,  I 
just  took  the  next  boat  from  Liverpool,  and  I  got  to  Bel- 
fast this  morning,  and  I  came  here  without  a  word  of 
warning  to  anyone. 

samuel  hinde.  Aye,  you  could  have  knocked  me  down  with 
a  feather  when  I  saw  him  standing  in  the  door.  Sure,  I 
thought  it  was  a  ghost. 

henry  hinde.  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  come  back.  Mind, 
it's  not  because  I  couldn't  get  anyone  else.  It's  because 
it's  the  will  of  God.  Not  my  will,  O  Lord,  but  Thine  be 
done.     I  could  marry  a  minister's  daughter  if  I  wanted  to. 

samuel  hinde.  Aye,  a  minister's  daughter,  mind  you. 
Over  in  Liverpool.     An  Englishwoman. 

henry  hinde.  But  I  put  all  desires  away  from  me,  and  came 
back  to  do  the  will  of  God. 

mrs.  cather  (weeping  softly).     I  thank  God  for  this  day. 

william  cather  (sullenly).  We've  waited  ten  years  for  the 
voice  of  God  to  speak.    Ten  years  is  a  long  time,  Henry. 

henry  hinde.     What  is  ten  years  to  eternity? 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  439 


samuel  hinde.     Aye,  indeed,  what  is  it? 

henry  hinde.  If  I  had  not  come  back  at  the  bidding  of 
God,  He  might  have  damned  my  soul  for  ever.  How  was 
I  to  know  that  He  wasn't  testing  me  as  with  fire? 

samuel  hinde.  Aw,  that's  true  —  that's  true!  Lord  bless 
me,  it  would  be  a  terrible  thing  to  go  to  hell. 

henry  hinde.     Is  the  child  all  right? 

william  cather.  Aye.  He's  running  about  the  street 
somewhere. 

samuel  hinde.  I  was  thinking  myself  the  other  day,  he 
was  a  wee  bit  wild.  Running  about  the  street  too  much 
maybe.  It's  not  good  for  a  child  to  be  running  about  the 
street  much. 

mrs.  cather.  Indeed,  Sam  Hinde,  he's  not  running  wild 
about  the  street.  There's  no  child  in  Donaghreagh  that's 
better  looked  after  nor  he  is,  for  all  he  is  —  for  all  his 
mother's  not  married. 

henry  hinde.  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  bring  that  child  up 
in  the  fear  of  God.  He  came  from  the  devil,  and  he  must 
be  given  to  God.     Does  Maggie  go  to  church  regular? 

mrs.  cather.     Not  since  her  trouble,  Henry. 

henry  hinde.  She  has  a  soul  to  be  saved,  Mrs.  Cather, 
and  by  the  help  of  God  I  mean  to  save  it.  Aw,  I'm  glad 
I  listened  to  His  voice.  I  feel  I  shall  be  the  instrument  for 
much  good  in  His  hands. 

william  cather.     Do  you  mean  to  marry  her? 

henry  hinde.     I  do.     It's  the  will  of  God  that  I  should. 

samuel  hinde.  You  know,  he  could  marry  a  minister's 
daughter  if  he  liked.  Over  in  Liverpool  there.  And  mind 
you,  they're  queer  and  particular  in  England. 

william  cather.  I  daresay  you're  right,  Sam,  but  that's 
not  the  question.  The  question  is,  what  will  Maggie  say? 
You  see  Henry  talks  about  his  duty  to  God;  but  he 
doesn't  say  anything  about  his  duty  to  Maggie.  And 
after  all,  it  was  her  that  was  wronged,  not  God.  Not  that 
I  would  make  little  of  our  duty  to  God.  There's  no  man 
knows  more  about  that  duty  nor  I  do.    But  we're  men, 


440  THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 


Sam,  you  and  Henry  and  me.     Maggie's  a  woman,  and 

women  don't  think  so  much  of  their  duty  to  God  as  men 

do.     It  would  be  a  bit  awkward  for  some  of  us,  if  they 

did.     You  don't  love  Maggie,  Henry? 
samuel  hinde.     Och,  man  alive,  didn't  I  tell  you  about 

the  minister's  daughter  over  in  Liverpool?     It's  her  he 

loves. 
william  cather.     Do  you  love  her,  Henry? 
henry  hinde.     As  a  fallen  sister!   .... 
william  cather.     Do  you  love  her  as  a  man  should  love 

the  woman  he  wants  to  marry? 
henry  hinde.     I'll  do  my  duty  by  her.     It's  a  debt  I  owe 

to  God.     I'll  be  a  good  husband  to  her,  and  I'll  try  to  bring 

her  to  the  paths  of  peace.     Will  she  be  long  before  she 

comes  back? 
mrs.  cather.     I  don't  know.     She  said  she  wouldn't  be  long. 

Maybe,  she'll  be  back  soon. 
william  cather.      I  wonder  if  she'll  have  you,   Henry. 

Women  think  more  of  loving  a  man  nor  they  do  of  loving 

God.     But  you  never  know.     I  wish  she  was  here. 
henry  hinde.     I  hope  she  won't  be  long,  for  I  must  get 

back  to  Belfast  to  catch  the  boat  for  Liverpool  the  night. 

I  can't  leave  the  shop  more  nor  a  day. 
samuel  hinde.     He's  doing  queer  and  well  in  the  shop. 

Aren't  you,  Henry? 
henry  hinde.     Aye,  the  Lord  has  prospered  me.     I  have 

two  assistants  and  a  vanman.     The  minister  thinks  a 

terrible  lot  of  me.     He  took  a  fancy  to  me  the  minute  he 

saw  me  in  the  chapel. 
mrs.  cather.     Chapel!    You've  not  turned  a  Catholic,  are 

you? 
henry  hinde.     No,  Mrs.  Cather,  I'm  a  Protestant,  thank 

God.     They  call  churches  chapels  in  England  unless  they're 

Episcopalian  places  of  worship.     They  call  us  Dissenters 

and  Nonconformists,  and  they  think  far  more  of  Catholics 

than  they  do  of  us. 
MRS.  cather.     Heth,  it  must  be  the  queer  funny  place. 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  441 


henry  hinde.  But  Catholics  have  souls  to  be  saved,  the 
same  as  Protestants.  We  should  never  make  little  of  them 
that  has  not  been  born  so  enlightened  as  ourselves. 

mrs.  cather.  Aw,  indeed,  many's  the  time  I've  said  that. 
Sure,  there's  good  and  bad  alike  in  all  religions. 

henry  hinde.  There's  no  bad  in  my  religion,  Mrs.  Cather. 
There's  no  room  for  bad  where  God  is. 

mrs.  cather.     Aw,  well,  maybe  you're  right. 

HENRY  HINDE.      I  am. 

mrs.  cather.  But  sure,  it's  not  worth  fighting  about.  Maybe, 

we're  all  wrong.     You  never  know. 
william  cather.     I  wish  Maggie  was  here  till  we  tell  her. 
mrs.  cather.     I  hope  she'll  have  you  all  right,  Henry. 
samuel  hinde.     Have  him!     Of  course,  she'll  have  him! 

She's  not  daft,  is  she? 
henry  hinde.     She's  not  in  a  position  to  choose,   Mrs. 

Cather.     A  woman  that's  had  a  bastard!   .... 
mrs.  cather.     Aw,  don't  say  it,  Henry! 
william  cather.     You  were  its  father  anyway.     If  there's 

no  choosing  for  her,  there's  no  choosing  for  you. 
henry  hinde.     There's  no  choosing  for  either  of  us.     It's 

the  will  of  God. 
samuel  hinde.     But  all  the  same  she  gets  the  best  of  it. 

Look  at  him — look  at  the  way  he's  dressed.     Like  any 

gentleman!     And  him  got  a  shop,  and  two  assistants,  and 

a  vanman,  and  could  marry  a  minister's  daughter  if  he 

liked.     I  don't  think  there's  much  doubt  about  who's 

being  favoured  by  the  Almighty. 
william  cather.     Maybe,  Sam,  maybe. 

[He  goes  to  the  door  and  looks  out  anxiously. 
mrs.  cather.     AYill  you  be  married  soon,  Henry? 
henry  hinde.     As  soon  as  possible.     I'll  tell  Mr.  Macmillan 

the  night  before  I  go,  and  I'll  come  over  again  in  a  month's 

time,  and  marry  her. 
william  cather.     Here's  Maggie  now. 
henry  hinde.     I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 

[Maggie  Cather  enters,  wearing  a  plaid  shawl  over  her  head. 


442  THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

She  enters  hurriedly,  throwing  the  shawl  aside  as  she  does  so. 

She  does  not  see  Henry  Hinde  at  first. 
maggie  cather  (to  Samuel  Hinde).   Is  that  you,  Mr.  Hinde? 

{She  sees  Henry.)     Henry !     ( There  is  a  short,  painful  pause, 

but  she  recovers  herself)     I  hope  you're  well. 
henry  hinde.     I'm  well  enough,  thank  you. 
mrs.  cather.     What  kept  you,  Maggie?    You're  queer  and 

long  getting  back. 
maggie  cather.     I  was  kept  longer  nor  I  thought.     I  hurried 

home  as  quick  as  I  could.     (To  Henry)     I  suppose  you're 

over  for  your  holidays. 
william  cather.     Maggie,  dear,  Henry's  come  back. 
maggie  cather.     So  I  see,  father. 
william  cather.     He's  come  back  to  make  you  an  offer. 

MAGGIE  CATHER.      A  what? 

william  cather.     He  wants  to  marry  you. 

[She  looks  from  one  to  the  other  like  one  who  does  not  quite  un- 
derstand what  is  being  said.     Then  she  turns  away,  laughing. 

mrs.  cather.  What  are  you  laughing  for  anyway?  Sure, 
it's  in  earnest  he  is. 

maggie  cather.  Henry,  is  it  true  you've  come  back  to 
marry  me? 

henry  hinde.  Aye,  it  is.  And  now  you  know,  I'll  just  go 
and  tell  the  minister  to  arrange  for  the  wedding.  I've  got 
to  catch  the  boat  back  to  Liverpool  the  night,  and  I 
haven't  much  time  to  lose. 

maggie  cather.     It's  ten  years  since  you  went  away,  Henry. 

HENRY  HINDE.      It  is. 

maggie  cather.     And  now  you've  come  back  to  marry  me. 
henry  hinde.     Aye.     I'll  be  back  in  a  month's  time  for  the 

wedding. 
maggie  cather  (pointing,  with  sudden  fury,  to  her  mother). 

Henry  Hinde,  do  you  see  that  old  woman? 
henry  hinde.     Aye,  I  do. 
maggie  cather.     Do  you  remember  nothing  about  her? 

Do  you  not  mind  her  and  me  meeting  you  one  night  in 

the  Cregagh  Loaning  before  the  child  was  born? 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  443 


henry  hinde.     Aye,  I  think  I  do. 

maggie  gather.  Do  you  mind  her  begging  you  to  marry 
me? 

HENRY  HINDE.      Aye. 

maggie  cather  (the  fury  still  in  her  voice).  Do  you  mind 
her  going  down  on  her  knees  to  you,  and  begging  you  for 
the  love  of  God  to  marry  me?  Do  you  mind  me  pleading 
with  you,  too? 

henry  hinde.     Aye,  I  do,  but  what  does  that  matter? 

maggie  cather.     Do  you  mind  what  you  said  to  us,  Henry? 

HENRY  HINDE.      No,  I  forget. 

maggie  cather.  You  said  I  was  a  bad  woman,  and  you 
weren't  going  to  marry  a  whore! 

mrs.  cather  (whimpering).  Maggie,  for  God's  sake  don't 
bring  it  all  up  again. 

henry  hinde.     Aye,  I  do  mind  that. 

maggie  cather.  If  I  was  one  then,  Henry,  I'm  one  now. 
I'm  just  as  you  left  me. 

henry  hinde.  I'm  not  asking  what  you  are.  I  know  what 
you  are,  and  I  know  what  I  am  too.  I  know  what  we  all 
are  before  God  —  hell-deserving  sinners.  I've  not  come 
back  for  what  you  are.  I've  come  back  to  marry  you  be- 
cause it's  the  will  of  God. 

maggie  cather.     Well,  it's  not  my  will,  then. 

samuel  hinde.  Not  your  will.  Woman,  you  mustn't  set 
yourself  up  against  God. 

maggie  cather.  I'm  not  setting  myself  up  against  God. 
I'm  setting  myself  up  against  Henry. 

mrs.  cather.  Maggie,  dear,  hold  your  tongue,  and  talk 
sense.     Sure,  it's  all  for  the  best. 

william  cather.     Leave  her  alone. 

maggie  cather.  Me  and  my  mother  did  to  you,  Henry, 
what  no  woman  should  ever  do  to  any  man  —  we  went 
down  on  our  knees  to  you.  Do  you  hear  that?  I  pleaded 
with  you  to  save  me  from  shame,  and  you  wouldn't.  You 
ran  away,  and  left  me  to  face  it  myself.  It  wasn't  easy 
to  face  either.     My  God,  when  I  think  of  it!     I  couldn't 


444  THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

go  to  the  Sabbath-school  nor  the  meeting.     Everybody 

knew  I  was  going  to  have  a  child,  and  I  wasn't  married. 

I  used  to  pretend  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 

me.    .    .    .    Once  the  minister  preached  an  awful  sermon 

about  the  woman  taken  in  sin.     Aw,  I  felt  that  every 

eye  in  the   place  was  on  me.     There  was  no  pity,  no 

mercy. 
henry  hinde.     Think  of  the  mercy  of  God,  Maggie. 
maggie  cather.     I  couldn't  see  it.     I  could  only  see  the 

disgrace  and  the  shame. 
mrs.  cather.     Aw,  but  don't  think  of  it,  Maggie.     Sure, 

it's  all  over,  now.     Henry '11  marry  you,  and  you'll  be  all 

right  again. 
maggie  gather.     I  won't,  I  tell  you,  I  won't.     I'm  not  going 

to  marry  him. 
samuel  hinde.     Maggie  Cather,  you  must  be  out  of  your 

mind.     Do  you  know  he's  got  a  shop,  and  two  assistants, 

and  a  vanman? 
maggie  cather.     I  don't  care  if  he's  got  fifty  shops,  and 

fifty  thousand  vanmen,  I  won't  marry  him. 
william  gather  (soothingly) .     Maggie! 
samuel   hinde.     Aye,   and   he   could   marry   a   minister's 

daughter  if  he  liked. 
henry  hinde.     Aw,  hold  your  wheesht,  father.     Maggie, 

there's  no  one  knows  better  nor  I  do  what  I've  done. 

You've  good  reason  to  be  angry  and  bitter,  but  I've  not 

come  back  to  make  excuses.     I'm  a  guilty  sinner  the  same 

as  you  are,  but  I've  been  saved.     Thank  God  for  that! 

I've  had  a  call  from  the  Father,  and  I  must  answer  the  call 

at  my  soul's  peril. 
maggie  cather.     You've  not  come  back  because  you  love 

me,  then? 
henry  hinde.     The  lusts  of  the  flesh  i   .... 
maggie  cather.     Aw,  stop,  stop,  man,  stop.     I  want  none 

of  your  religion. 
mrs.  cather.     Maggie,  dear!   .... 
william  cather.     Leave  her  alone. 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  445 

samuel  hinde.     I  must  say  I  don't  think  your  manners  is 
very  genteel,  Maggie  Cather. 

maggie  cather.  Listen,  Henry  Hinde.  All  the  time  you 
were  away  in  Liverpool  where  nobody  knew  you,  I  was 
here  where  everybody  knew  me.  Do  you  know  what  that 
means?  People  staring  at  me,  and  turning  up  their  noses 
at  me?  There  was  nothing  but  contempt  for  me  at  first. 
I  was  a  bad  woman,  and  I  wasn't  asked  nowhere.  Fellows 
in  the  street  treated  me  like  dirt  beneath  their  feet.  They 
spoke  to  me  as  if  I  was  a  bad  woman.  And  all  the  time 
you  were  in  Liverpool,  and  were  thought  a  lot  of.  It 
wasn't  fair.  And  it  wasn't  me  only.  I  mind  once  I  was 
coming  down  an  entry,  and  I  saw  a  lot  of  children  tor- 
menting the  child.  He  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
them,  and  they  were  making  him  say  things  after  them. 
I  heard  them  saying,  "What  are  you,  Willie?"  And  then 
they  made  him  say,  "I'm  a  wee  bastard!"  Aw,  if  I  could 
have  laid  hands  on  you  then,  Henry,  I  would  have  throttled 
you. 

mrs.  cather.     But  sure  it's  all  over  now. 

maggie  cather.  Aye,  they  don't  treat  me  with  contempt 
now.  I've  lived  that  down.  They  just  pity  me  now. 
Sometimes  when  I  go  past  their  doors,  an  old  woman'll 
hear  me  passing,  and  ask  who  it  is,  and  they  always  say, 
"It's  only  poor  Maggie  Cather."  I  could  thole  their 
contempt  better  nor  their  pity,  but  I  didn't  run  away  from 
either  of  them.  I  faced  it  all,  and  I've  brought  up  the 
child  as  good  as  any  of  them.  And  now  when  I've  bore 
the  hardest  of  it,  you  come  back  to  marry  me.  Maybe, 
you'll  be  ordering  me  about,  and  bossing  the  child.  I'm 
to  do  what  you  tell  me.  I've  to  love,  honour  and 
obey  you.  What  for,  Henry,  that's  what  I'd  like  to 
know? 

henry  hinde.     I've  come  back  at  the  command  of  God. 

william  cather.  Maggie,  dear,  maybe  you  don't  under- 
stand it  all.     You'd  better  think  it  over  a  bit. 

maggie  cather.     I  understand  perfectly,  father. 


446  THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

william  gather.  Aye,  but  wait  a  bit,  Maggie.  There's 
more  in  it  nor  you  think.  The  lad's  getting  big,  you  know, 
and  the  time'U  soon  be  here  when  you'll  lose  your  hold 
on  him.  You  know,  Maggie,  every  woman  loses  her  grip 
on  her  man  or  her  child  some  time  or  other,  and  it  just 
depends  on  wee  things  whether  they  ever  get  it  back  again. 
The  child  needs  a  man  to  look  after  him. 

maggie  cather.     Aren't  you  good  enough  for  him? 

william  cather.  I'm  too  old.  Old  men  are  worse  nor 
old  women  for  controlling  young  people.  You  are  never 
controlled  so  well  as  you  are  by  someone  near  your  own 
age.  He'll  be  leaving  school  in  a  year  or  two,  and  neither 
you  nor  me'll  be  any  younger  then.  You  want  a  man  to 
look  after  him. 

mrs.  cather.     Aye,  dear,  indeed  you  do. 

maggie  cather.     I  can  look  after  him  myself. 

william  cather.  No,  you  can't.  Not  when  he  finds  things 
out.  It's  the  between  age,  Maggie,  when  men  is  neither 
boys  nor  men  —  the  only  time  when  men  never  cling  to 
women.     It's  the  time  they  go  quickest  to  the  devil. 

henry  hinde.  I  was  thinking  myself  of  giving  the  lad  a 
good  schooling  over  in  Liverpool.  I  had  a  feeling  as  I 
was  coming  over  in  the  boat  that  maybe  if  I  was  to  have 
the  child  trained  for  a  minister,  he  could  wipe  out  some  of 
the  debt  I  owe  to  God. 

mrs.  cather.  Do  you  hear  that,  Maggie!  Henry's  going 
to  make  a  minister  of  Willie.  Sure,  the  child'll  be  a  credit 
to  you  yet. 

maggie  cather.     He's  a  credit  to  me  now. 

william  cather.     Aye,  Maggie,  he  is. 

samuel  hinde.  I'm  sure  it's  queer  and  considerate  of  Henry 
considering  what  he  might  do. 

maggie  cather.  If  I  was  to  marry  you,  Henry,  would  you 
treat  the  child  the  same  as  you  would  one  that  was  not 
a  —  not  a   .    .    .    . 

henry  hinde.  I'll  treat  him  just  the  same  as  if  he  was  a 
child  of  God  instead  of  a  child  of  sin. 


THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  447 

Maggie  cather  (bitterness  returning  to  her  voice).  It  wasn't 
his  fault. 

henry  hinde.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the 
children  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation. 

maggie  cather.  Aye,  and  you'll  take  damned  good  care 
my  child  doesn't  escape.  You'll  hurt  him,  and  say  it's 
the  will  of  God!   .    .    . 

samuel  hinde.  Maggie  Cather,  your  language  is  most  un- 
becoming ! 

henry  hinde.  She  is  possessed  of  a  devil,  father.  Leave 
her  to  me.     I'll  save  her  soul  by  the  help  of  God. 

mrs.  cather.     Maggie,  dear,  say  you'll  have  him. 

william  cather.     It'll  be  all  right  for  the  child,  Maggie. 

maggie  cather.     I'll  think  about  it. 

henry  hinde.  I  must  know  now.  It's  not  me  you're 
answering,  it's  God  Himself.     You  can't  put  God  off. 

william  cather.  Maybe,  if  we  were  to  leave  Maggie  to 
talk  it  over  with  you  alone,  Henry,  you  could  both  come 
to  a  decision.  Jane  and  me'll  just  show  your  father  a  shed 
I'm  putting  up  in  the  garden  for  the  leather.  Come  on, 
Sam. 

samuel  hinde  (jovially).  Aye,  indeed,  William,  that's  the 
queer  good  notion  of  yours.  I  was  just  going  to  make  it 
myself.  Aw,  you  know,  when  a  man  and  a  woman  get 
together,  sure,  they  like  to  be  alone.  It's  a  queer  thing 
when  you  come  to  think  it  over;  but  there  it  is.  Och,  aye! 
human  beings  is  a  funny  lot,  William,  they  are  that. 
Well,  well,  let's  go  and  have  a  look  at  your  shed. 
[Exit  Samuel  by  the  scullery. 

mrs.  cather.  Maggie,  dear,  you'll  take  him,  won't  you? 
Don't  be  proud  with  him.  Men  can't  stand  pride,  Mag- 
gie. Just  take  him,  dear,  and  he'll  make  you  a  respectable 
woman  again. 

william  cather.     Come  on,  woman,  come  on.     All  right, 
Maggie,  all  right. 
[They  go  out  together. 

henry  hinde.     Maggie,  I  haven't  much  time. 


443  THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

maggie  cather.     Did  you  ever  love  me,  Henry? 

henry  hinde.     I  suppose  I  liked  you,  Maggie. 

maggie  cather.     But  you  don't  love  me  now? 

henry  hinde.     It's  ten  years  since  I  saw  you  last. 

maggie  cather.     Do  you  love  this  minister's  daughter,  your 

father  was  talking  about? 
henry    hinde.     That's   neither   here   nor   there,    Maggie. 

When  God  tells  us  to  put  our  desires  aside,  we've  got  to  bow 

our  heads  and  say,  Thy  Will,  O  Lord,  not  ours,  be  done. 
maggie  cather.     Is  she  a  good  woman? 
henry  hinde.     Aye,  she  is. 
maggie  cather.     She  never  had  a  child. 
henry  hinde.     No,  she's  a  good  woman. 
maggie  cather.     She's  worthy  of  you,  maybe. 
henry  hinde.     Aye,  she  is.     She's  worthy  of  any  good  man. 
maggie  cather.     And  I  suppose  I'm  not  worthy  of  you. 
henry  hinde.     You  have  fallen  short  of  the  glory  of  God. 
maggie  cather.     We  both  fell  at  the  same  time,  Henry. 
henry  hinde.     I'm  saved  and  you're  not.     I'm  in  a  state 

of  grace,  and  you're  in  a  state  of  sin. 
maggie  cather.     Then  I'm  not  as  good  as  you  are? 
henry  hinde.     No,  you're  not. 
maggie  cather.     If  I  was  saved,  too,  would  I  be  as  good  as 

you  are? 
henry  hinde.     That's  for  God  to  say,  Maggie,  not  me. 
maggie  cather.    Do  you  think  I'd  be  as  good  as  you?  Leave 

God  out  of  it  for  a  minute.     If  I  committed  a  sin,  you 

committed  one,  too. 
henry  hinde.     I'm  not  denying  it. 
maggie  cather.     Aye,  but  you  think  I'm  a  bigger  sinner  nor 

you  were;  and  if  I  was  saved,  too,  you'd  still  think  I  was 

worse  nor  you,  wouldn't  you? 

HENRY  HINDE.       I  Would. 

maggie  cather.     Why  would  you? 

henry  hinde.  Because  you're  a  woman.  Because  it  was 
through  women  that  sin  first  came  into  the  world  to  damn 
the  souls  of  men.     Because  it's  women  that  keeps  sin  in 


THE  MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  449 

the  world  with  their  shameful,  lustful  bodies.  God  Him- 
self came  down  from  Heaven  to  save  men  from  their  sins, 
and  suffered  the  pangs  of  hell  that  they  might  be  saved, 
and  sin  be  swept  out  of  the  world.  But  man  turns  from 
the  high  God  to  the  low  woman  to  his  own  damnation, 
and  God  may  weep  in  His  Heaven  for  the  souls  of  men  for 
ever,  and  no  man  will  heed  Him.  Aw,  the  sin  and  the 
shame  that  women  have  brought  into  the  world!  Every 
soul  that  writhes  in  hell  was  sent  there  by  a  woman. 

maggie  cather.     You  want  to  marry  me,  Henry? 

henry  hinde.     Because  its  a  debt  I  owe  to  God.     If  I 
could  save  your  soul  I'd  be  paying  Him  back. 

maggie  cather.     And  if  I  don't  marry  you? 

henry  hinde.     I  shall  have  tried  all  the  same.     I  can  do 
no  more.  m 

maggie  cather.  Henry,  you're  worse  nor  I  thought  you. 
You're  not  thinking  of  me,  nor  the  wrong  you  did.  It's 
yourself  you're  thinking  of.  You're  afraid  of  God,  and 
you  want  to  use  me  to  buy  Him  off.  You  can  well  call 
yourself  a  God-fearing  man,  Henry.  I'm  nothing  to  you. 
The  child  you're  the  father  of  is  nothing  to  you.  You're 
just  frightened  out  of  your  wits  for  fear  you  should  go  to 
hell  for  all  you're  saved.  I  won't  marry  you.  I'm  as 
good  as  you  are  for  all  I'm  not  saved.  I'm  better  nor  you 
are,  for  I'm  not  afraid  of  God.  (She  goes  to  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  scullery)  Come  on  in,  will  you. 
[Samuel,  Jane  and  William  enter  in  the  order  named. 

mrs.  cather.     Have  you  took  him,  yet? 

maggie  cather.     No.     Father,  I've  decided  not  to  marry 
Henry. 

william  cather.     You're  sure,  Maggie? 

maggie  cather.     I  am,  father. 

william  cather.     Maybe,  you  know  best,  Maggie. 

mrs.  cather.     William  Cather,  will  you  stand  there  and  let 
your  daughter  make  a  fool  of  herself? 

samuel   hinde.     I   must  say  I   think  you're   right,  Mrs. 
Cather. 


450  THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER 

william  cather.  We  don't  want  to  know  what  you  think, 
Sam.     Jane,  you  needn't  say  any  more. 

mrs.  cather.  I  will  say  more.  I've  been  patient  all  these 
years,  and  said  nothing,  but  I'll  be  patient  no  more. 
We're  a  shamed  family.  Yes,  we  are.  A  bastard  in  the 
house!  There  never  was  no  shame  in  my  family,  no,  nor 
yours  either,  William  Cather,  before  Maggie. 

william  cather.     Well,  well,  it  can't  be  helped. 

mrs.  cather.  And  when  she  has  a  chance  of  putting  herself 
right,  and  making  a  respectable  woman  of  herself,  she 
hangs  back,  and  won't  take  it.  And  you  stand  by,  and  let 
her  do  it. 

maggie  cather.     I  am  a  respectable  woman. 

mrs.  cather.  You're  not,  you  know  you're  not.  You're  a 
bad  woman,  you  know  you  are.  Maybe,  if  the  truth  was 
known,  you  led  this  good  man  into  the  trouble! 

william  cather.  Hold  your  tongue,  woman!  My  God,  if 
you  speak  like  that,  I'll  strike  you  down. 

mrs.  cather.  I'm  your  wife,  William  Cather,  and  I've  been 
a  good  wife  to  you,  too.  I've  submitted  to  you  in  every- 
thing since  we  were  married.  I've  stood  by,  and  bore  cuts 
from  people  that  was  lower-born  nor  me  because  of  Mag- 
gie. I've  stood  them  without  saying  anything  because 
you  told  me  to.  But  I  hoped  and  prayed  to  God  that 
some  day  Henry 'd  come  back,  and  make  her  a  respectable 
woman  again.  I  was  that  glad  when  he  came  in  with 
Sam,  and  said  he'd  marry  her!  —  and  now,  —  aw,  William, 
William,  make  her  marry  him.  Henry,  you'll  take  her 
still,  won't  you? 

henry  hinde.     Aye,  I'll  take  her  still. 

samuel  hinde.  I'm  sure  it's  very  magnanimous  of  you, 
Henry,  after  the  way  you've  been  treated. 

william  cather.     It's  for  Maggie  to  say,  not  for  me. 

mrs.  cather.     Ask  her  again,  Henry. 

henry  hinde.  Maggie  Cather,  I  solemnly  ask  you  before 
God  your  Maker,  to  marry  me. 

MAGGIE  CATHER.      No. 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS   LOVER  451 

henry  hinde.  I'll  give  you  another  chance,  Maggie.  Will 
you  marry  me? 

MAGGIE  CATHER.      No. 

samuel  hinde.     Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  for  it,  but 

to  go  home.     It's  a  pity  you  wasted  your  money  coming 

over,  Henry. 
mrs.  cather.     No,  don't  go  yet,  Henry.     Give  her  time  to 

think  it  over.     When  she  sees  the  child  she'll  change  her 

mind.     I'll  go  and  get  him. 
william  cather.     Stay  where  you  are. 

henry  hinde.     Maggie,  for  the  last  time,  will  you  marry  me? 
maggie  cather.     Am  I  as  good  as  you? 
henry  hinde.     You  know  what  I  said  before.     Will  you 

marry  me?         / 

MAGGIE  CATHER.      No,  no,  no. 

henry  hinde.  Very  well,  then,  Maggie,  I'll  just  say 
good-bye. 

samuel  hinde.  That's  your  last  chance,  my  lady.  You'll 
get  no  more.  Heth,  you're  a  fine  one  to  be  putting  on 
airs.  Anyone  would  think  you  were  a  decent  woman  by 
the  way  you  talk. 

william  cather.  Samuel  Hinde,  if  you  don't  want  to  be 
hurried  before  your  Maker  before  your  time,  you'll  get 
out  of  this  house  without  another  word. 

samuel  hinde.  Aw,  indeed.  I  like  the  conceit  of  you. 
That  man  could  buy  and  sell  you  and  your  daughter 
twice  over,  and  not  notice  it.  He's  a  gentleman,  and 
could  marry  the  daughter  of  a  minister,  but  he's  good 
enough  to  come  and  offer  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
cobbler  that's  disgraced  herself;  and  he's  treated  like  dirt. 
A  man  that  has  a  shop  and  two  assistants!   .... 

william  cather.  Aye,  we  heard  all  that  before,  Sam. 
You  needn't  wait  any  longer. 

samuel  hinde.  Come  on,  Henry.  Sure,  you're  only  de- 
meaning yourself  here. 

henry  hinde.  I  came  here  to  do  the  will  of  God.  I've 
done  my  best.     (He  shits  his  eyes  and  prays)     Lord,  Thou 


452  THE   MAGNANIMOUS   LOVER 


knowest  the  weakness  of  Thy  servant.  If  I  have  failed 
to  move  this  sinful  woman's  heart  through  lustful  desires 
after  another,  forgive  me,  O  Lord,  for  Thy  Name's  Sake. 
Amen.  I'll  say  good-bye,  to  you,  William.  If  we  should 
never  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity,  I  would  bid  you  con- 
sider this.  What  Shall  It  Profit  a  Man  if  He  Gain  the 
Whole  World  and  Lose  His  Own  Soul?  Good-bye  to 
you  all. 

[Samuel  and  Henry  Hinde  go  out  together. 
Maggie  cather.     Was  I  wrong,  father? 
william  cather.     God  only  knows,  Maggie. 
mrs.  cather.     It's  a  sin,  it's  a  sin.     To  throw  away  the 

chance  of  being  respectable. 
maggie  cather.     There  isn't  much  difference  between  you 

and  me,  mother.     You've  had  a  child,  and  so  have  I. 
mrs.  cather.     I'm  a  married  woman. 

maggie  cather.     You've  only  been  to  the  minister,  and  I 
haven't.     There's  not  much  difference  between  us.  Maybe, 
I'm  a  better  woman  nor  you.     I  had  a  son,  and  you  only 
had  a  girl. 
mrs.  cather  {in  dreadful  fury  as  though  she  would  strike  her 
daughter).    How  dare  you?    How  dare  you  make  a  mock 
of  me? 
william    cather.       Jane,    woman,    you    forget    yourself. 
You're   an   old    woman.     You    shouldn't    be   so    bitter, 
Maggie. 
mrs.  cather.     Why  wouldn't  you  marry  him?     Wasn't  he 

good  enough? 
maggie  cather.     He  was  too  good.     If  you  heard  what  he 
said  to  me.     He  said  I  was  a  sinful,  lustful  woman,  and 
could  never  be  as  good  as  he  is.     It  wasn't  me  he  was 
thinking  of;  it  was  himself.     I'm  not  needing  to  marry, 
but  if  I  do,  I'll  marry  to  save  my  own  soul,  and  not  Henry 
Hinde's. 
william  cather.     Aw,  well,  dear,  it  doesn't  matter  about 
Henry.     Maybe,  you  were  right  not  to  have  him. 
[He  pats  her  affectionately  on  the  shoulder. 


THE   MAGNANIMOUS  LOVER  453 

maggie  cather.     I  hope  I  was,  father. 

william  cather.     I  hope  so,  dear.     You  never  know. 

[He  goes  out  through  the  scullery  door  to  the  garden.  Maggie 
takes  up  her  shawl,  and  goes  into  the  bedroom,  leaving  Mrs. 
Cather  weeping  by  the  fire. 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

LORD  DUNSANY 

The  chief  biographical  source-book  on  Lord  Dunsany  is 
Edward  Hale  Bierstadt's  "Dunsany  the  Dramatist."  As 
Mr.  Bierstadt's  book,  in  its  latest  revised  form,  has  the 
official  sanction  of  the  dramatist,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  select 
a  few  passages  for  quotation. 

Edward  John  Moreton  Drax  Plunkett  is  the  "eighteenth 
Baron  of  his  line,  and  his  name  and  ancestry  are  said  to  be 
the  third  oldest  in  Irish  history.  In  1899  he  succeeded  to 
the  title,  and  to  the  family  estates  in  Meath.  .  .  .  Born  in 
1878,  Lord  Dunsany  was  educated  at  Eaton  and  Sandhurst, 
and  then  entered  the  army.  He  saw  active  service  .  .  . 
during  the  South  African  war  ..."  Dunsany  was  first 
heard  of  in  connection  with  the  Irish  literary  movement  in 
1902  or  1903,  while  his  first  book  was  published  in  1905.  But 
"his  first  play  did  not  appear  until  1909,  when  'The  Glit- 
tering Gate'  was  put  on  at  the  Abbey  Theater,  Dublin. 
'King  Argimenes  and  the  Unknown  Warrior'  followed  in 
February  of  1911  at  the  Abbey,  and  the  next  June  'The 
Gods  of  the  Mountain '  went  on  at  the  Haymarket  Theater, 
London." 

While  certain  Dunsany  plays  were  produced  in  America 
before  1916,  it  was  not  until  Stuart  Walker  (Season  1916- 
1917)  offered  a  series  of  Dunsany  productions  that  the  dra- 
matist became  popular.  For  three  seasons  Dunsany  plays 
were  to  be  seen  on  the  stages  of  dozens  of  little  theaters 
throughout  the  country. 

"Something  must  be  wrong,"  says  Dunsany  in  an  article 
on  "Romance  and  the  Modern  Stage  ",  "with  an  age  whose 


456 


THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 


drama  deserts  romance."  This  statement  includes  one 
half  of  Dunsany's  theory  of  art.  The  other  half  he  phrases 
as  follows:  "Romance  is  so  inseparable  from  life  that  all  we 
need  to  obtain  romantic  drama  is  for  the  dramatist  to  find 
any  age  and  any  country  where  life  is  not  too  thickly  veiled 
and  cloaked  with  puzzles  and  conventions,  in  fact  to  find  a 
people  that  is  not  in  the  agonies  of  self-consciousness.  For 
myself,  I  think  that  it  is  simpler  to  imagine  such  a  people, 
as  it  saves  the  trouble  of  reading  to  find  a  romantic  age,  or 
the  trouble  of  making  a  journey  to  lands  where  there  is  no 
press." 

Of  "The  Golden  Doom"  Mr.  Bierstadt  says:  "It  is  the 
poet  rather  than  the  dramatist  who  speaks  in  '  The  Golden 
Doom.'  It  may  be  observed  though  that  it  is  no  personal 
problem  with  which  we  are  confronted,  it  rarely  is  with 
Dunsany.  ...  It  is  Boyhood  in  the  mass,  nay,  even  in 
the  abstract  with  which  we  are  called  upon  to  sympathize; 
it  is  the  idea  of  Majesty  which  we  are  asked  to  pity.  It  is 
man  in  the  conglomerate  whole  with  which  we  are  dealing, 
not  an  individual  man." 


PLAYS 


*The  Glittering  Gate  (1909) 

King    Argimenes    and    the 

Unknown  Warrior  (1911) 

The  Gods  of  the  Mountain 

(1911) 
*The  Golden  Doom  (1912) 
*The  Lost  Silk  Hat  (1913) 
The  Tents  of  the  Arabs 

(1914) 
*A  Night  at  an  Inn  (1916) 
*The  Queen's  Enemies  (1916) 


*Fame  and  the  Poet  (1918) 
*The  Prince  of  Stamboul 

(1918) 
The  Laughter  of  the  Gods 

(1919) 
*The  Murderers  (1919) 
*A  Good  Bargain  (1920) 
*The    Compromise    of    the 

King  of  the  Golden  Isles 

(1920) 


"The  Gods  of  the  Mountain",  "The   Golden  Doom", 
"King  Argimenes  and  the  Unknown  Warrior",  "The  Glit- 


THE   GOLDEN   DOOM  457 

tering  Gate",  and  "The  Lost  Silk  Hat"  are  published  as 
"Five  Plays",  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston; 
"The  Tents  of  the  Arabs",  "The  Laughter  of  the  Gods", 
"The  Queen's  Enemies",  and  "A  Night  at  an  Inn"  as 
"Plays  of  Gods  and  Men  ",  by  John  W.  Luce  and  Company, 
Boston. 

References:  Edward  Hale  Bierstadt,  "Dunsany  the 
Dramatist"  (new  and  revised  edition,  1919),  Little,  Brown 
and  Company,  Boston;  Clayton  Hamilton,  "Seen  on  the 
Stage,"  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York;  Dunsany 's 
"Nowadays",  Four  Seas  Company,  Boston. 

Magazines:  The  Forum,  May,  1914,  New  York;  February, 
1915;  Current  Opinion,  June,  1916,  New  York;  The  Bellman, 
Minneapolis,  1917. 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 


By  LORD  DUNSANY 


"The  Golden  Doom"  was  first  produced  at  London  in 
1912. 

Characters 

The  King 

Chamberlain 

Chief  Prophet 

Girl 

Boy 

Spies 

First  Prophet 

Second  Prophet 

First  Sentry 

Second  Sentry 

Stranger 

Attendants 

Scene  :  Outside  the  King's  great  door  in  Zericon. 
Time:  Some  while  before  the  fall  of  Babylon. 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Little,  Brown,  and  Compant. 

All  dramatic  rights  reserved  by  the  author. 

Reprinted,  by  permission  of  author  and  publisher,  from  "  Five  Plays  ",  published 
by  Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston. 

No  performance  of  "The  Golden  Doom",  either  professional  or  amateur,  may 
be  given  without  the  written  permission  of  the  owner  of  the  acting  rights,  who  may 
be  addressed  in  care  of  the  publishers,  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


THE  GOLDEN  DOOM 

Two  Sentries  pace  to  and  fro,  then  halt,  one  on  each  side  of 

the  great  door. 

first  sentry.     The  day  is  deadly  sultry. 

second  sentry.  I  would  that  I  were  swimming  down  the 
Gyshon,  on  the  cool  side,  under  the  fruit  trees. 

first  sentry.     It  is  like  to  thunder  or  the  fall  of  a  dynasty. 

second  sentry.  It  will  grow  cool  by  night-fall.  Where  is 
the  King? 

first  sentry.  He  rows  in  his  golden  barge  with  ambassa- 
dors or  whispers  with  captains  concerning  future  wars. 
The  stars  spare  him! 

second  sentry.     Why  do  you  say  "the  stars  spare  him"? 

first  sentry.  Because  if  a  doom  from  the  stars  fall  sud- 
denly on  a  king  it  swallows  up  his  people  and  all  things 
round  about  him,  and  his  palace  falls  and  the  walls  of  his 
city  and  citadel,  and  the  apes  come  in  from  the  woods  and 
the  large  beasts  from  the  desert,  so  that  you  would  not 
say  that  a  king  had  been  there  at  all. 

second  sentry.  But  why  should  a  doom  from  the  stars 
fall  on  the  King? 

first  sentry.     Because  he  seldom  placates  them. 

second  sentry.     Ah !     I  have  heard  that  said  of  him. 

first  sentry.  Who  are  the  stars  that  a  man  should  scorn 
them?  Should  they  that  rule  the  thunder,  the  plague 
and  the  earthquake  withhold  these  things  save  for  much 
prayer?  Always  ambassadors  are  with  the  King,  and  his 
commanders,  come  in  from  distant  lands,  prefects  of  cities 
and  makers  of  the  laws,  but  never  the  priests  of  the  stars. 

second  sentry.     Hark!     Was  that  thunder? 

first  sentry.     Believe  me,  the  stars  are  angry. 

[Enter  a  Stranger.     He  wanders  toward  the  King's  door, 
gazing  about  him. 


462  THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 

sentries  (lifting  their  spears  at  him).     Go  back!     Go  back! 

STRANGER.       Why? 

first  sentry.     It  is  death  to  touch  the  King's  door. 
stranger.     I  am  a  stranger  from  Thessaly. 
first  sentry.     It  is  death  even  for  a  stranger. 
stranger.     Your  door  is  strangely  sacred. 
first  sentry.     It  is  death  to  touch  it. 

[The  Stranger  wanders  off.     Enter  two  children  hand  in  hand. 
boy  (to  the  Sentry).     I  want  to  see  the  King  to  pray  for  a  hoop. 

[The  Sentry  smiles. 
boy    (pushes   the   door;   to   girl).     I   cannot   open   it.     (To 

the  Sentry)     Will  it  do  as  well  if  I  pray  to  the  King's 

door? 
sentry.     Yes,  quite  as  well.     (Turns  to  talk  to  the  other 

Sentry)     Is  there  anyone  in  sight? 
second  sentry  (shading  his  eyes).     Nothing  but  a  dog,  and 

he  far  out  on  the  plain. 
first  sentry.     Then  we  can  talk  awhile  and  eat  bash. 
boy.     King's  door,  I  want  a  little  hoop. 

[The  Sentries  take  a  little  bash  between  finger  and  thumb  from 

pouches  and  put  that  wholly  forgotten  drug  to  their  lips. 
girl  (pointing).     My  father  is  a  taller  soldier  than  that. 
boy.     My  father  can  write.     He  taught  me. 
girl.     Ho!     Writing   frightens   nobody.     My   father   is   a 

soldier. 
boy.  I  have  a  lump  of  gold.     I  found  it  in  the  stream  that 

runs  down  to  Gyshon. 
girl.     I  have  a  poem.     I  found  it  in  my  own  head. 
boy.  Is  it  a  long  poem? 
girl.     No.     But  it  would  have  been  only  there  were  no  more 

rhymes  for  sky. 
boy.  What  is  your  poem? 

GIRL. 

I  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky 
And  it  went  up  and  up 

And  round  about  did  fly. 


THE   GOLDEN  DOOM  463 

boy.  I  saw  it  die. 

girl.     That  doesn't  scan. 

boy.     Oh,  that  doesn't  matter. 

girl.     Do  you  like  my  poem? 

boy.     Birds  aren't  purple. 

girl.     My  bird  was. 

boy.     Oh ! 

girl.     Oh,  you  don't  like  my  poem! 

boy.     Yes,  I  do. 

girl.     No,  you  don't;  you  think  it  horrid. 

boy.     No.     I  don't. 

girl.     Yes,  you  do.     Why  didn't  you  say  you  liked  it?     It 

is  the  only  poem  I  ever  made. 
boy.  I  do  like  it.  I  do  like  it. 
girl.     You  don't,  you  don't! 

boy.     Don't  be  angry.     I'll  write  it  on  the  door  for  you. 
girl.     You'll  write  it? 
boy.     Yes,  I  can  write  it.     My  father  taught  me.     I'll  write 

it  with  my  lump  of  gold.     It  makes  a  yellow  mark  on  the 

iron  door. 
girl.     Oh,  do  write  it!     I  would  like  to  see  it  written  like 

real  poetry. 

[The  Boy  begins  to  write.     The  Girl  watches. 
first  sentry.     You  see,  we'll  be  fighting  again  soon. 
second  sentry.     Only  a  little  war.     We  never  have  more 

than  a  little  war  with  the  hill-folk. 
first  sentry.     When  a  man  goes  to  fight,  the  curtains 

of   the  gods  wax  thicker  than  ever  before  between  his 

eyes  and  the  future;  he  may  go  to  a  great  or  to  a  little 

war. 
second  sentry.     There  can  only  be  a  little  war  with  the 

hill-folk. 
first  sentry.     Yet  sometimes  the  gods  laugh. 

SECOND  SENTRY.      At  whom? 
FIRST  SENTRY.       At  kings. 

second  sentry.     Why  have  you  grown  uneasy  about  this 
war  in  the  hills? 


464  THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 


first  sentry.  Because  the  King  is  powerful  beyond  any  of 
his  fathers,  and  has  more  fighting  men,  more  horses,  and 
wealth  than  could  have  ransomed  his  father  and  his  grand- 
father and  dowered  their  queens  and  daughters;  and  every 
year  his  miners  bring  him  more  from  the  opal-mines  and 
from  the  turquoise-quarries.     He  has  grown  very  mighty. 

second  sentry.  Then  he  will  the  more  easily  crush  the 
hill-folk  in  a  little  war. 

first  sentry.  When  kings  grow  very  mighty  the  stars  grow 
very  jealous. 

boy.     I've  written  your  poem. 

girl.     Oh,  have  you  really? 

boy.     Yes,  I'll  read  it  to  you.     (He  reads) 

I  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky 
And  it  went  up  and  up 

And  round  about  did  fly. 
I  saw  it  die. 

girl.     It  doesn't  scan. 

boy.     That  doesn't  matter. 

[Enter  furtively  a  Spy,  who  crosses  stage  and  goes  out.    The 
Sentries  cease  to  talk. 

girl.     That  man  frightens  me. 

boy.     He  is  only  one  of  the  King's  spies. 

girl.     But  I  don't  like  the  King's  spies.     They  frighten  me. 

boy.     Come  on,  then,  we'll  run  away. 

sentry  (noticing  the  children  again).  Go  away,  go  away! 
The  King  is  coming,  he  will  eat  you. 
[The  Boy  throws  a  stone  at  the  Sentry  and  runs  out.  Enter 
another  Spy,  who  crosses  the  stage.  Enter  third  Spy,  who 
notices  the  door.  He  examines  it  and  utters  an  owl-like 
whistle.  No.  2  comes  back.  They  do  not  speak.  Both 
whistle.  No.  3  comes.  All  examine  the  door.  Enter  the 
King  and  his  Chamberlain.  The  King  wears  a  purple  robe. 
The  Sentries  smartly  transfer  their  spears  to  their  left  hands 
and  return  their  right  arms  to  their  right  sides.     They  then 


THE   GOLDEN   DOOM  465 

lower  their  spears  until  their  points  are  within  an  inch  of 
the  ground,  at  the  same  time  raising  their  right  hands  above 
their  heads.  They  stand  for  some  moments  thus.  Then 
they  lower  their  right  arms  to  their  right  sides,  at  the  same 
time  raising  their  spears.  In  the  next  motion  they  take  their 
spears  into  their  right  hands  and  lower  the  butts  to  the  floor, 
where  they  were  before,  the  spears  slanting  forward  a  little. 
Both  Sentries  must  move  together  precisely. 

first  spy  (runs  forward  to  the  King  and  kneels,  abasing  his 
forehead  to  the  floor) .  Something  has  written  on  the  iron 
door. 

chamberlain.     On  the  iron  door! 

king.  Some  fool  has  done  it.  Who  has  been  here  since 
yesterday? 

first  sentry  (shifts  his  hand  a  little  higher  on  his  spear,  brings 
the  spear  to  his  side  and  closes  his  heels  all  in  one  motion;  he 
then  takes  one  pace  backward  with  his  right  foot;  then  he 
kneels  on  his  right  knee;  when  he  has  done  this  he  speaks, 
but  not  before).  Nobody,  Majesty,  but  a  stranger  from 
Thessaly. 

king.     Did  he  touch  the  iron  door? 

first  sentry.  No,  Majesty;  he  tried  to,  but  we  drove  him 
away. 

king.     How  near  did  he  come? 

first  sentry.     Nearly  to  our  spears,  Majesty. 

king.  What  was  his  motive  in  seeking  to  touch  the  iron 
door? 

first  sentry.     I  do  not  know,  Majesty. 

king.     Which  way  did  he  go? 

first  sentry  (pointing  left).  That  way,  Majesty,  an  hour 
ago. 

[The  King  whispers  urith  one  of  his  Spies,  who  stoops  and 
examines  the  ground  and  steals  away.     The  Sentry  rises. 

king  (to  his  two  remaining  Spies).  What  does  this  writing 
say? 

a  spy.     We  cannot  read,  Majesty. 

king.     A  good  spy  should  know  everything. 


466  THE   GOLDEN   DOOM 

second  spy.  We  watch,  Majesty,  and  we  search  out,  Ma- 
jesty. We  read  shadows,  and  we  read  footprints,  and 
whispers  in  secret  places.     But  we  do  not  read  writing. 

king  (to  the  Chamberlain).     See  what  it  is. 

chamberlain  (goes  up  and  reads).     It  is  treason,  Majesty. 

king.     Read  it. 

CHAMBERLAIN.        T  ,     ,  .    , 

1  saw  a  purple  bird 

Go  up  against  the  sky, 
And  it  went  up  and  up 

And  round  about  did  fly. 
I  saw  it  die. 

first  sentry  (aside).     The  stars  have  spoken. 

king  (to  the  Sentry) .  Has  anyone  been  here  but  the  stranger 
from  Thessaly? 

sentry  (kneeling  as  before).     Nobody,  Majesty. 

king.     You  saw  nothing? 

first  sentry.  Nothing  but  a  dog  far  out  upon  the  plain  and 
the  children  of  the  guard  at  play. 

king  (to  the  Second  Sentry).     And  you? 

second  sentry  (kneeling).     Nothing,  Majesty. 

chamberlain.     That  is  strange. 

king.     It  is  some  secret  warning. 

chamberlain.     It  is  treason. 

king.     It  is  from  the  stars. 

chamberlain.     No,  no,  Majesty.     Not  from  the  stars,  not 
from  the  stars.     Some  man  has  done  it.     Yet  the  thing 
should  be  interpreted.     Shall  I  send  for  the  prophets  of 
the  stars? 
[The  King  beckons  to  his  Spies.     They  run  up  to  him. 

king.  Find  me  some  prophet  of  the  stars.  (Exeunt  Spies) 
I  fear  that  we  may  go  no  more,  my  chamberlain,  along 
the  winding  ways  of  unequalled  Zericon,  nor  play  dahoori 
with  the  golden  balls.  I  have  thought  more  of  my  people 
than  of  the  stars  and  more  of  Zericon  than  of  windy 
Heaven. 

chamberlain.     Believe  me,  Majesty,  some  idle  man  has 


THE   GOLDEN   DOOM  467 

written  it  and  passed  by.     Your  spies  shall  find  him,  and 

then  his  name  will  be  soon  forgotten. 
king.     Yes,  yes.     Perhaps  you  are  right,  though  the  sen- 
tries saw  no  one.     No  doubt  some  beggar  did  it. 
chamberlain.     Yes,  Majesty,  some  beggar  has  surely  done 

it.     But  look,  here  come  two  prophets  of  the  stars.     They 

shall  tell  us  that  this  is  idle. 

[Enter  two  Prophets  and  a  Boy  attending  them.     All  bow 

deeply  to  the  King.     The  two  Spies  steal  in  again  and  stand 

at  back. 
king.     Some  beggar  has  written  a  rhyme  on  the  iron  gate, 

and  as  the  ways  of  rhyme  are  known  to  you  I  desired  you, 

rather  as  poets  than  as  prophets,  to  say  whether  there  was 

any  meaning  in  it. 
chamberlain.     'Tis  but  an  idle  rhyme. 
first  prophet  (bows  again  and  goes  up  to  door.     He  glances 

at  the  writing).     Come  hither,  servant  of  those  that  serve 

the  stars. 

[Attendant  approaches. 
first  prophet.     Bring  hither  our  golden  cloaks,  for  this  may 

be  a  matter  for  rejoicing;  and  bring  our  green  cloaks  also, 

for  this  may  tell  of  young  new  beautiful  things  with  which 

the  stars  will  one  day  gladden  the  King;  and  bring  our 

black  cloaks  also,  for  it  may  be  a  doom.     (Exit  the  Boy; 

the  Prophet  goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads  solemnly)      The 

stars  have  spoken. 

[Reenter  Attendant  with  cloaks. 
king.     I  tell  you  that  some  beggar  has  written  this. 
first  prophet.     It  is  written  in  pure  gold. 

[He  dons  the  black  cloak  over  body  and  head. 
king.     What  do  the  stars  mean?     What  warning  is  it? 
first  prophet.     I  cannot  say. 
king  (to  Second  Prophet).     Come  you  then  and  tell  us  what 

the  warning  is. 
second  prophet  (goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads).     The  stars 

have  spoken. 

[He  cloaks  himself  in  black. 


468  THE   GOLDEN   DOOM 

king.     What  is  it?     What  does  it  mean? 

second  prophet.    We  do  not  know,  but  it  is  from  the  stars. 

chamberlain.  It  is  a  harmless  thing;  there  is  no  harm  in 
it,  Majesty.     Why  should  not  birds  die? 

king.     Why  have  the  prophets  covered  themselves  in  black? 

chamberlain.  They  are  a  secret  people  and  look  for  inner 
meanings.     There  is  no  harm  in  it. 

king.     They  have  covered  themselves  in  black. 

chamberlain.  They  have  not  spoken  of  any  evil  thing. 
They  have  not  spoken  of  it. 

king.  If  the  people  see  the  prophets  covered  in  black  they 
will  say  that  the  stars  are  against  me  and  believe  that  my 
luck  has  turned. 

chamberlain.     The  people  must  not  know. 

king.  Some  prophet  must  interpret  to  us  the  doom.  Let 
the  chief  prophet  of  the  stars  be  sent  for. 

chamberlain  {going  toward  left  exit).  Summon  the  chief 
prophet  of  the  stars  that  look  on  Zericon. 

voices  off.  The  chief  prophet  of  the  stars.  The  chief 
prophet  of  the  stars. 

chamberlain.  I  have  summoned  the  chief  prophet, 
Majesty. 

king.  If  he  interpret  this  aright  I  will  put  a  necklace  of 
turquoises  round  his  neck  with  opals  from  the  mines. 

chamberlain.  He  will  not  fail.  He  is  a  very  cunning  in- 
terpreter. 

king.  What  if  he  covers  himself  with  a  huge  black  cloak 
and  does  not  speak  and  goes  muttering  away,  slowly  with 
bended  head,  till  our  fear  spreads  to  the  sentries  and  they 
cry  aloud? 

chamberlain.  This  is  no  doom  from  the  stars,  but  some  idle 
scribe  hath  written  it  in  his  insolence  upon  the  iron  door, 
wasting  his  hoard  of  gold. 

king.  Not  for  myself  I  have  a  fear  of  doom,  not  for  my- 
self; but  I  inherited  a  rocky  land,  windy  and  ill-nurtured, 
and  nursed  it  to  prosperity  by  years  of  peace  and  spread 
its  boundaries  by  years  of  war.     I  have  brought  up  har- 


THE   GOLDEN   DOOM  469 

vests  out  of  barren  acres  and  given  good  laws  unto  naughty- 
towns,  and  my  people  are  happy,  and  lo,  the  stars  are 
angry ! 

chamberlain.     It  is  not  the  stars,  it  is  not  the  stars,  Majesty, 
for  the  prophets  of  the  stars  have  not  interpreted  it. 
Indeed,  it  was  only  some  reveller  wasting  his  gold. 
[Meanwhile  enter  Chief  Prophet  of  the  stars  that  look  on 
Zericon. 

king.  Chief  Prophet  of  the  Stars  that  look  on  Zericon,  I 
would  have  you  interpret  the  rhyme  upon  yonder  door. 

chief  prophet  {goes  up  to  the  door  and  reads) .  It  is  from  the 
stars. 

king.  Interpret  it  and  you  shall  have  great  turquoises 
round  your  neck,  with  opals  from  the  mines  in  the  frozen 
mountains. 

chief1  prophet  (cloaks  himself  like  the  others  in  a  great  black 
cloak).  Who  should  wear  purple  in  the  land  but  a  King, 
or  who  go  up  against  the  sky  but  he  who  has  troubled  the 
stars  by  neglecting  their  ancient  worship?  Such  a  one 
has  gone  up  and  up  increasing  power  and  wealth,  such  a 
one  has  soared  above  the  crowns  of  those  that  went  be- 
fore him,  such  a  one  the  stars  have  doomed,  the  undying 
ones,  the  illustrious. 
[A  pause. 

king.     Who  wrote  it? 

chief  prophet.      It  is  pure  gold.     Some  god  has  written  it. 

CHAMBERLAIN.       Some  god? 

chief  prophet.  Some  god  whose  home  is  among  the  un- 
dying stars. 

first  sentry  (aside  to  the  Second  Sentry).  Last  night  I  saw 
a  star  go  flaming  earthward. 

king.     Is  this  a  warning  or  is  it  a  doom? 

chief  prophet.     The  stars  have  spoken. 

king.     It  is,  then,  a  doom? 

chief  prophet.     They  speak  not  in  jest. 

king.  I  have  been  a  great  King  —  Let  it  be  said  of  me 
"The  stars  overthrew  him,  and  they  sent  a  god  for  his 


470  THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 

doom."  For  I  have  not  met  my  equal  among  kings  that 
man  should  overthrow  me;  and  I  have  not  oppressed  my 
people  that  men  should  rise  up  against  me. 

chief  prophet.  It  is  better  to  give  worship  to  the  stars  than 
to  do  good  to  man.  It  is  better  to  be  humble  before  the 
gods  than  proud  in  the  face  of  your  enemy  though  he  do 
evil. 

king.  Let  the  stars  hearken  yet  and  I  will  sacrifice  a  child 
to  them  —  I  will  sacrifice  a  girl  child  to  the  twinkling  stars 
and  a  male  child  to  the  stars  that  blink  not,  the  stars  of 
the  steadfast  eyes.  (To  his  Spies)  Let  a  boy  and  girl  be 
brought  for  sacrifice.  (Exit  a  Spy  to  the  right  looking  at 
footprints)  Will  you  accept  this  sacrifice  to  the  god  that 
the  stars  have  sent?     They  say  that  the  gods  love  children. 

chief  prophet.     I  may  refuse  no  sacrifice  to  the  stars  nor 
to  the  gods  whom  they  send.     (To  the  other  Prophets) 
Make  ready  the  sacrificial  knives. 
[The  Prophets  draw  knives  and  sharpen  them. 

king.  Is  it  fitting  that  the  sacrifice  take  place  by  the  iron 
door  where  the  god  from  the  stars  has  trod,  or  must  it  be 
in  the  temple? 

chief  prophet.     Let  it  be  offered  by  the  iron  door.     (To 
the  other  Prophets)     Fetch  hither  the  altar  stone. 
[The  owl-like  whistle  is  heard  off  right.     The  Third  Spy  runs 
crouching  toward  it.     Exit. 

king.     Will  this  sacrifice  avail  to  avert  the  doom? 

chief  prophet.     Who  knows? 

king.     I  fear  that  even  yet  the  doom  will  fall. 

chief  prophet.  It  were  wise  to  sacrifice  some  greater 
thing. 

king.     What  more  can  a  man  offer? 

chief  prophet.     His  pride. 

king.     What  pride? 

chief  prophet.  Your  pride  that  went  up  against  the  sky 
and  troubled  the  stars. 

king.     How  shall  I  sacrifice  my  pride  to  the  stars? 

chief  prophet.     It  is  upon  your  pride  that  the  doom  will 


THE   GOLDEN  DOOM  471 

fall,  and  will  take  away  your  crown  and  will  take  away 

your  kingdom. 
king.     I    will    sacrifice    my    crown    and    reign    uncrowned 

amongst  you,  so  only  I  save  my  kingdom. 
chief  prophet.     If  you  sacrifice  your  crown  which  is  your 

pride,  and  if  the  stars  accept  it,  perhaps  the  god  that  they 

sent  may  avert  the  doom  and  you  may  still  reign  in  your 

kingdom  though  humbled  and  uncrowned. 
king.     Shall  I  burn  my  crown  with  spices  and  with  incense 

or  cast  it  into  the  sea? 
chief  prophet.     Let  it  be  laid  here  by  the  iron  door  where 

the  god  came  who  wrote  the  golden  doom.     When  he 

comes  again  by  night  to  shrivel  up  the  city  or  to  pour  an 

enemy  in  through  the  iron  door,  he  will  see  your  cast-off 

pride  and  perhaps  accept  it  and  take  it  away  to  the  neg- 
lected stars. 
king  (to  the  Chamberlain).     Go  after  my  spies  and  say  that 

I  make  no  sacrifice.     (Exit  the  Chamberlain  to  the  right; 

the  King  takes  off  his  crown)     Good-bye,  my  brittle  glory; 

kings  have  sought  you;  the  stars  have  envied  you. 

[The  stage  grows  darker. 
chief  prophet.     Even  now  the  sun  has  set  who  denies  the 

stars,  and  the  day  is  departed  wherein  no  gods  walk  abroad. 

It  is  near  the  hour  when  spirits  roam  the  earth  and  all 

things  that  go  unseen,  and  the  faces  of  the  abiding  stars 

will  be  soon  revealed  to  the  fields.     Lay  your  crown  there 

and  let  us  come  away. 
king  (lays  his  crown  before  the  iron  door;  then  to  the  Sentries) . 

Go!     And  let  no  man  come  near  the  door  all  night. 
the  sentries  (kneeling).     Yes,  Majesty. 

[They  remain  kneeling  until  after  the  King  has  gone.     King 

and  the  Chief  Prophet  walk  aivay. 
chief  prophet.     It  was  your  pride.     Let  it  be  forgotten. 

May  the  stars  accept  it. 

Exeunt  left.     The  Sentries  rise. 
first  sentry.     The  stars  have  envied  him! 
second  sentry.     It  is  an  ancient  crown.     He  wore  it  well. 


472  THE   GOLDEN  DOOM 

first  sentry.     May  the  stars  accept  it. 

second  sentry.  If  they  do  not  accept  it  what  doom  will 
overtake  him? 

first  sentry.  It  will  suddenly  be  as  though  there  were 
never  any  city  of  Zericon  nor  two  sentries  like  you  and  me 
standing  before  the  door. 

second  sentry.     Why!     How  do  you  know? 

first  sentry.     That  is  ever  the  way  of  the  gods. 

second  sentry.     But  it  is  unjust. 

first  sentry.     How  should  the  gods  know  that? 

second  sentry.     Will  it  happen  to-night? 

first  sentry.     Come!  we  must  march  away. 

[Exeunt  right.  The  stage  grows  increasingly  darker.  Re- 
enter the  Chamberlain  from  the  right.  He  walks  across  the 
Stage  and  goes  out  to  the  left.  Reenter  Spies  from  the  right. 
They  cross  the  stage,  which  is  now  nearly  dark. 

boy  (enters  from  the  right,  dressed  in  white,  his  hands  out  a 
little,  crying).  King's  door,  King's  door,  I  want  my  little 
hoop.  (He  goes  wp  to  the  King's  door.  When  he  sees  the 
King's  crown  there,  he  utters  a  satisfied)  O-oh! 
[He  takes  it  up,  pids  it  on  the  ground,  and,  beating  it  before 
him  with  the  sceptre,  goes  out  by  the  way  that  he  entered. 
The  great  door  opens;  there  is  light  within;  a  furtive  Spy  slips 
out  and  sees  that  the  crown  is  gone.  Another  Spy  slips  out. 
Their  crouching  heads  come  close  together. 

first  spy  (hoarse  whisper).     The  gods  have  come! 

[They  run  back  through  the  door  and  the  door  is  closed.    It 
opens  again  and  the  King  and  the  Chamberlain  come  through. 

king.     The  stars  are  satisfied. 

curtain 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

The  literature  on  modern  English  and  Irish  drama,  collected  and  uncol- 
lected, has  of  late  years  so  increased  in  bulk,  that  an  even  fairly  comprehen- 
sive bibliography  would  fill  a  large  volume.  Such  a  bibliography,  even  if 
it  existed,  would  not  be  required  by  the  readers  of  this  book.  The  following 
notes  are  intended  merely  as  a  guide  to  the  reader  who  wishes  to  know 
where  to  turn  for  detailed  information  on  modern  English  and  Irish  drama. 
Practically  all  the  dramatists  whose  works  are  included  in  this  volume  are 
treated  or  at  least  touched  upon  in  some  of  the  books  mentioned,  so  that  it 
has  not  been  thought  worth  while  repeating  the  titles  of  such  general  works 
as  Thomas  H.  Dickinson's  "Contemporary  Drama  of  England  ",  Ernest  A. 
Boyd's  "  Contemporary  Drama  of  Ireland  ",  and  kindred  studies. 

GENERAL  WORKS,  DEVOTED  IN  PART  TO  MOD- 
ERN ENGLISH  AND  IRISH  DRAMA 

Archer,  William.    "Playmaking."    Small,  Maynard  and  Company,  Boston. 

Baker,  George  P.    "Dramatic  Technique."     Houghton  MifBin  Company, 
Boston. 

Cannan,  Gilbert.    "The  Joy  of  the  Theater."    E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company, 
New  York. 

Carter,  Huntley.  "The  New  Spirit  in  Drama  and  Art."  Mitchell  Kennerley, 
New  York. 

Chandler,  F.  W.   "Aspects  of  Modern  Drama."   Macmillan  Company,  New 
York. 

Cheney,  Sheldon.    "The  New  Movement  in  the  Theater."    Mitchell  Ken- 
nerley, New  York. 

Dukes,  Ashley.    "Modern  Dramatists."    Sergei,  Chicago. 

Goldmann,   Emma.      "The  Social  Significance  of  the  Modern  Drama." 
Richard  G.  Badger,  Boston. 

Hale,  Jr.,  Edward  Everett.   "Dramatists  of  Today."  Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany, New  York. 

Hamilton,  Clayton.    "The  Theory  of  the  Theater."    Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany, New  York. 

Henderson,   Archibald.      "The  Changing  Drama."      Stewart  and   Kidd, 
Cincinnati. 
"European  Dramatists."     Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cincinnati. 

Lewisohn,  Ludwig.    "The  Modern  Drama."    B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York. 

Matthews,  Brander.  "A  Study  of  the  Drama."  Houghton  Mifflin  Company, 
Boston. 

Moderwell,  H.  K.    "The  Theater  of  Today."    John  Lane  Company,  New 
York. 

Palmer,  John.  "The  Future  of  the  Theater."  George  Bell  and  Sons,  London. 

Phelps,  William  Lyon.     "The  Twentieth  Century  Theater."     Macmillan 
Company,  New  York. 


474  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

BOOKS  DEVOTED  EITHER  EXCLUSIVELY  OR 
PRINCIPALLY  TO  MODERN  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

Archer,  William.  "English  Dramatists  of  Today."  Sampson,  Low,  Marston 

and  Company,  London. 
Armstrong,  Cecil  F.     "From  Shakespeare  to  Shaw."     Mills  and  Boon, 

London. 
Barker,  Granville,  and  Archer,  William.     "Schemes  and  Estimates  for  a 

National  Theater."     Duffield  and  Company,  New  York. 
Borsa,  Mario.     "The  English  Stage  of  Today."     John  Lane  Company, 

London. 
Clark,  Barrett  H.    "The  British  and  American  Drama  of  Today."    Stewart 

and  Kidd,  Cincinnati. 
Dickinson,  Thomas  H.    "The  Contemporary  Drama  of  England."    Little, 

Brown  &  Company,  Boston. 
Filon,  Augustin.    "The  English  Stage."    Dodd,  Mead  and  Company,  New 

York. 
Howe,  P.  P.    "Dramatic  Portraits."    Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York. 

"The  Repertory  Theater."     Mitchell  Kennerley,  New  York. 
Jones,  Henry  Arthur.  "The  Renascence  of  the  English  Drama."   Macmillan 

Company,  London. 
"The  Foundations  of  a  National  Drama."  George  H.  Doran  Company, 

New  York. 
McCarthy,  Desmond.    "The  Court  Theater."    A.  H.  Bullen,  Stratford-on- 

Avon. 


BOOKS   DEVOTED    EITHER  EXCLUSIVELY    OR 
PRINCIPALLY  TO  MODERN  IRISH  DRAMA 

Boyd,  E.  A.     "The  Contemporary  Drama  of  Ireland."    Little,  Brown  and 

Company,  Boston. 
"Ireland's  Literary  Renaissance."    John  Lane  Company,  New  York. 
Gregory,  Lady  Augusta.    "Our  Irish  Theater."   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New 

York. 
Morris,  Lloyd  R.    "The  Celtic  Dawn."    Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 
Weygandt.    "Irish  Plays  and  Playwrights."    Houghton  Mifflin  Company, 

Boston. 
Yeats,  W.  B.  "The  Cutting  of  an  Agate."  Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 

VOLUMES  OF  COLLECTED  ESSAYS  ON  MODERN 
ENGLISH  AND  IRISH  DRAMA,  FOR  THE 
MOST  PART  CONTEMPORARY  RE- 
VIEWS OF  PERFORMANCES 

Archer,  William.    "About  the  Theater."   T.  Fisher  Unwin,  London. 
"Studv  and  Stage."     Grant  Richards,  London. 
"The  Theatrical  World."     5  vols.     Walter  Scott,  London. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  475 

Eaton,  Walter  Prichard.     "Plays  and  Players."    Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cin- 
cinnati. 
George,  W.  L.    "Dramatic  Actualities."    Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London. 
Grein,  J.  T.   "Dramatic  Criticism."   John  Long,  London  (1899). 

"Premieres  of  the  Year."     Macquecn,  London  (1900). 

"Dramatic  Criticism."    Greening  and  Company,  London  (1901). 

"Dramatic  Criticism."     Eveleigh  Nash,  London  (1904). 
Hamilton,  Clayton.    "Problems  of  the  Playwright."   Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany, New  York. 

"Seen  on  the  Stage."     Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York. 

"Studies  in  Stagecraft."    Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York. 
Hunekcr,  James.    "Iconoclasts."    Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 

"The  Pathos  of  Distance."     Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 
Montague,  C.  E.    "  Dramatic  Values."    Macmillan  Company,  New  York. 
Moore,  George.    "Impressions  and  Opinions."    Brentano's,  New  York. 
Scott,  Clement.    "Drama  of  Yesterday  and  Today."    Macmillan  Company, 

New  York. 
S[pence],  E.  F.     "Our  Stage  and  Its  Critics."    Methuen  and   Company, 

London. 
Shaw,  Bernard.   "Dramatic  Opinions  and  Essays."   Brentano's,  New  York. 
Symons,  Arthur.  "Plays,  Acting,  and  Music."  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company. 

New  York. 
Titterton,  W.  R.   "From  Theater  to  Music  Hall."   Swift,  London. 
Walbrook,  H.  M.    "Nights  at  the  Play."    Ham-Smith,  London. 
Walkley,  A.  B.    "Playhouse  Impressions."    T.  Fisher  Unwin,  London. 

"Drama  and  Life."     Brentano's,  New  York. 

"Dramatic  Criticism."     John  Murray,  London. 

"Frames  of  Mind."     Elkin  Matthews,  London. 


MISCELLANEOUS,  INCLUDING    BIBLIOGRAPHIES, 
ANTHOLOGIES,  LISTS  OF  PLAYS,  ETC. 

Clark,  Barrett  H.    "How  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays."    Little,  Browm  and 

Company,  Boston.     (Lists  of  plays  and  bibliographies.) 
"European  Theories  of  the  Drama."     Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cincinnati. 

(Bibliographies.) 
Dickinson,  Thomas  H.     "Chief  Contemporary  Dramatists."     Houghton 

Mifflin  Company,  Boston.     (Lists  of  plays  and  bibliographies.) 
Moses,    Montrose    J.      "Representative    British    Dramas:    Victorian   and 

Modern."     Little,  Brown  and  Company,  Boston.     (Lists  of  plays 

and  bibliographies.) 
Parker,  John.     "Who's  Who  in  the  Theater."    Sir  Isaac  Pitman  and  Sons, 

London.     (Biographies  and  lists  of  plays.) 
Shay,  Frank.    "The  Plays  and  Books  of  the  Little  Theater."  Frank  Shay, 

New  York.     (Bibliographies  and  lists  of  plays.) 
Shay,  Frank,  and  Loving,  Pierre.     "Fifty  Contemporary  One-act  Plays." 

Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cincinnati.     (Lists  of  plays  and  bibliographies.) 
Tatlock,  John  S.  P.,  and  Martin,  Robert  G.  "Representative  English  Plays." 

The  Century  Company,  New  York.     (Lists  of  plays  and  bibliog- 
raphies.) 
"The  Stage  Year  Book."    (Annually)    Carson  and  Comerford,  London. 


476  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

ONE-ACT  PLAYS  BY  ENGLISH  AND  IRISH 
DRAMATISTS 

A  selection  of  some  of  the  more  interesting  plays,  not  including 
those  reprinted  in  the  present  volume. 

Baring,  Maurice.   "Catherine  Parr."    Farce. 
"The  Greek  Vase."     Farce. 
"The  Rehearsal."     Farce. 

(Above  plays  in  "Diminutive  Dramas."    Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  Boston.) 
Barker,  Granville.     "Vote  by  Ballot."'     Comedy. 

(In  "Three  Short  Plays."    Little,  Brown  and  Company, 
Boston.) 
Barrie,  J.  M.      "Pantaloon."     Fantasy. 

"The  Twelve-Pound  Look."     Comedy. 
"Rosalind."     Comedy. 

(Above  plays  in  "Half  Hours."     Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
New  York.) 
Bennett,  Arnold.    "A  Good  Woman."     Farce. 
"A  Question  of  Sex."     Farce. 
(Above  plays  in  "Polite  Farces."    George  H.  Doran  Com- 
pany, New  York.) 
Brighouse,  Harold.     "The   Price  of   Coal."      Serious.      Le   Roy   Phillips, 

Boston. 
Caldcron,  George.     "The  Little  Stone  House."     Serious.     Sidgwick  and 

Jackson,  London. 
Cannan,  Gilbert.    "A  Short  Way  with  Authors."    Farce.    Le  Roy  Phillips, 
Boston. 
"Everybody's  Husband."  Fantasy.  B.  W.  Huebsch,  New 
York. 
Chapin,  Harold.     "Augustus  in  Search  of  a  Father."  Comedy.  Gowans  and 

Gray,  London. 
Conrad,  Joseph.    "One  Day  More."    Drama.    Smart  Set,  New  York,  Feb- 
ruary, 1914. 
Down,  Oliphant.    "The  Quod  Wrangle."  Farce.  Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Dowson,  P>nest.    "The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute."    Fantasy.    Samuel  French, 

New  York. 
Drinkwater,  John.     "The  Storm."     Serious. 

"X  =  O:  A  Drama  of  the  Trojan  War."    Serious. 
(Above  plays  in  "Pawns."     Houghton  Mifflin  Company, 
Boston.) 
Dunsany,  Lord.    "The  Lost  Silk  Hat."     Comedy. 
"The  Glittering  Gate."     Fantasy. 

(Above  plays  in  "Five  Plays."    Little,  Brown  and  Com- 
pany, Boston. 
"A  Night  at  an  Inn."     Drama. 

(In  "Plays  of  Gods  and  Men."    John  W.  Luce  and  Com- 
pany, Boston.) 
Ervine,  St.  John.     "The  Orangeman."     Serious. 
"The  Critics."     Farce. 

(Above  plays  in  "Four  Irish  Plays."    Macmillan  Company, 
New  York.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  477 

Galsworthy,  John.     "The  Little  Man."     Serious. 
"Hallmarked."     Comedy. 

(Above   plays   in   "The   Little   Man   and   other   Satires." 
Charles  Seribner's  Sons,  New  York.) 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson.     "Mates."     Serious. 
"On  the  Road."     Serious. 

(Above  plays  in   "Daily   Bread."      Macmillan  Company, 
New  York.) 
Gregory,  Lady  Augusta.     "Hyacinth  Halvey."     Farce. 
"The  Jackdaw."     Farce. 
"The  Rising  of  the  Moon."     Fantasy. 
(Above  plays  in  "Seven  Short  Plays."     G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  New  York.) 
Hankin,  St.  John.  "The  Constant  Lover."  Comedy.  Theater  Arts  Magazine, 

New  York,  vol.  3,  no.  2. 
Houghton,  Stanley.     "Phipps."     Comedy. 

"The  Fifth  Commandment."     Comedy. 
(Above  plays  in  "Five  One- Act  Plays."     Samuel  French, 
New  York.) 
Housman,  Laurence.     "As  Good  as  Gold."   Fantasy.   Samuel  French,  New 
York. 
"Bird  in  Hand."    Comedy.    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
"A  Likely  Story."    Fantasy.    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Jones,  Henry  Arthur.   "Her  Tongue."  Serious.    (In  "The  Theater  of  Ideas." 

George  H.  Doran  Company,  New  York.) 
Masefield,  John.    "Mrs.  Harrison."     Serious.      (In  "The  Tragedy  of  Nan." 

Macmillan  Company,  New  York.) 
Morrison,  Arthur.     "That  Brute  Simmons."     Comedy.     Samuel  French, 

New  York. 
O'Brien,  Seumas.     "Duty."     Comedy. 

"Magnanimity."     Comedy. 

(Above  plays  in  "Duty  and  Other  Irish  Comedies."   Little, 

Brown  and  Company,  Boston.) 
"Blind."     Comedy.     Egmont  Arens,  New  York. 
Palmer,  John.   "Over  the  Hills."   Comedy.  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London. 
Phillpotts,  Eden.     "The  Point  of  View."    Comedy. 
"The  Hiatus."     Comedy. 
"The  Carrier  Pigeon."     Serious. 

(Above  plays  in  "Curtain-Raisers,"  Brentano's,  New  York. 
Pinero,  Sir  Arthur.     "Playgoers."     Comedy.    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Robins,  Elizabeth.     "Realities."    Serious.    (In  "Makeshifts  and  Realities." 
T.  Werner  Laurie,  London.) 
"  'Ilda's  Honourable."    Comedy.    (In  "Loving  as  We  Do." 
T.  Werner  Laurie,  London.) 
Shaw,  Bernard.     "Press  Cuttings."    Farce.    Brentano's,  New  York. 

"How  He  Lied  to  Her  Husband."     Comedy.     Brentano's, 
New  York. 
Sowerby,  Githa.     "Before  Breakfast."     Comedy.     Sidgwick  and  Jackson, 

London. 
Sutro,  Alfred.     "The  Bracelet."     Serious.     Samuel  French,  New  York. 

"The  Open  Door."    Serious.    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Yeats,  W,  B.      "A  Pot  of  Broth."     Farce. 

"Kathleen  ni  Houlihan."     Serious. 

(Above    plays    in    "Kathleen    ni    Houlihan."     Macmillan 
Company,  New  York.) 


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